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■ li usHiET) Mvrx JsaAisaTr 5e ©©id s? 



POEMS OF SSI AN. 



TRANSLATED BV 



JAMES 3IACPHERSfli\, Esq. 



TO WHITH ARE VREFISED, 



A N> « >.^ -•«*' OISCOIIKSF, AND Dl.SSEUTA'l'lONS ON THM 
^HA AND FOKMS OK OSSIAN 



N E W V () R K • 

p [I B L T s ff R D n Y i: I) \v A i; n k earn y, 

'272 PIAHI f'IKFKT. 



F^'; 



:A^ 



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€ift ffom 

ff9if\H B&. Florence W. Conger 

Juiy 12 1932 



0NTENTf5. 



Pag.. 

A Preliminavy Discourse , 5 

Preface 38 

4 Dissertation concerning the Mra. of Ossian 44 

A. Dissertation concerning the Poems of Ossian 57 

Dr. Blair's Critical Dissertation on the Poems of Ossian 88 

('ath-loda, in three Duans 189 

Oomaia. 20S 

Carric-thura 209 

Carthon 221! 

Oina-morul 235 

Colna-dona 239 

Oithuna 243 

Ooma 249 

Calthon and Cohnal . 254 

The War of Caros 261 

C.uhUn of Clutha 269 

iSuuinaila of L-umoR 275 

The War of Inis-thona 280 

The Songs of Selma 285 

Fingal, in six Boolcs 293 

Lathnion 358 

Dar-thula 369 

The Death of CuthuUin 383 

The Battle of Lora 391 

Temora, in eight Books 399 

Conlath and Cuthona 479 

Ucrrii^hon 483 



PRELIMINARY DISCOURSB. 



As Swift has, with some reason, affirmed that all 
sublunary happiness consists in being well deceived^ it 
may possibly be the creed of many, that it had been 
wise, if after Dr. Blair's ingenious and elegant disserta- 
tion on "the venerable Ossian," all doubts respecting 
what we have been taught to call his works had for- 
ever ceased : since there appears cause to believe, th^it 
numbers who listened with delight to " the voice of 
Cona," would have been hap/>y, if, seeing their own 
good, they had been content with these poems accom- 
panied by Dr. Blair's judgment, and sought to know no 
more. There are men, however, whose ardent love 
of truth rises, oh all occasions, paramount to every 
other consideration ; and though the first step in search 
of it shouM dissolve the charm, and turn a fruitful 
Eien into a barren wild, they would pursue it. For 
these, and for the idly curious in literary problems, 
added to the wish of making this new edition of " The 
Potms of Ossian" as well-informed as the hour would 
allow, we have here thought it proper to insert some 
account of a renewal of the controversy relating to 
the genuineness of this rich treasure of poetical excel- 
lence. 



6 A rKKLIlMINAilY DlbCOUKSE. 

Nearly half a century has elapsed since the publica- 
tion of the poems ascribed by Mr. Macphcrson to 
Ossian, which poems he then professed to have col- 
lected in the original Gaelic, during a tour through the 
Western Highlands and iriles ; but a doubt of their 
authenticity nevertheless obtaiiied, and, from their first 
appearance to this day, has continued in various de- 
grees to agitate the literary world. In the present 
year, " A Report,"* springing from an inquiry insli-- 
tutcd for the purpose of leaving, with regard to this 
matter, "no hinge or loop to hang a doubt on," has 
been laid before the public. As the committee, in this 
investigation, followed, in a great measure, tliat line of 
conduct chalked out by David Hume to Dr. Blair, wc 
.shall, previously to stating their precise mode of pro- 
cecding, make several large and interesting extracts 
from the historian's two letters on this subject. 

" I live in a place," he writes, " where 1 have the 
pleasure of frequently hearing justice done to your 
dissertation, but never heard it mentioned in a com- 
})any, where some one person or other did not express 
his doubts with regard to the authenticity of the poems 
which are its subject; ai\d I often hear them totally 
rejected with disdain and indignation, as a palpable and 
most impudent forgery. This opinion has, indeed, 
become very prevalent among the men of letters in 
London ; and I can foresee, that in a few years, tho 
poems, if they continue to stand on their piGsent fool- 
ing, will be thrown aside, and will fall into final obliv- 
ion. 



* "A Report of the committee of the Highland Society of Scot- 
land, appointed to inquire into the nature and authenticity of the 
Poems of Ossian. Drawn up, according to the directions of the 
committee, by Henry Mackenzie, Esq., its convener, or chairman 
With a copious appendix, containing some of the principal docu 
nents on which the report is founded. Edinburgh, 1805." 8 vo 
up 343. 



A rRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 7 

" The absurd pride and caprice of Macpherson him- 
self, who scorns, as he pretends, to satisfy anybody 
that doubts his veracity, has tended much to confirm 
this general skepticism ; and I must own, for my part, 
that though I have h.ad many particular reasons to be- 
lieve these poems genuine, more than it is possible for 
any Englishman of letters to have, yet I am not entirely 
^^■ithout my scruples on that head. Youtliink, that the 
internal proofs in favor of the poems are veiy convin- 
cing ; so they are ; but there are also internal reasons 
against them, particularly from the manners, notwith- 
standing all the art with which you have endeavored to 
throw a vernish* on that circumstance ; and the preser- 
vation of such long and such connected poems, by oral 
tradition alone, during a course of fourteen centuries, 
is so much out of the ordinary course of human affairs, 
that it requires the strongest reasons to make us be- 
lieve it. My present purpose, therefore, is to apply to 
you in the name of all the men of letters of this, and, I 
may say, of all other countries, to establish this capital 
point, and to give us proofs that these poems are, I do 
not say, so ancient as the age of Severus, but that they 
were not forged within these five years by James Mac- 
pherson. These proofs must not be arguments, but 
testimonies ; people's cars are fortified against the 
former ; the latter may yet find their way, before the 
poems are consigned to total oblivion. Now the testi- 
monies may, in my opinion, be of two kinds. Mac- 
pherson pretends there is an ancient manuscript of p;art 
of Fingal in the family, I think, of Clanronald. Get 
Ihat fact ascertained by more than one person of credit ; 
let these persons be acquainted with the Gaelic; \et 
them compare the original and the translation ; and let 
them testify the fidelity of the latter. 

♦ So in MS. 



8 A rut LIMJ.NAKV IltiCUUllbE. 

" But the chief point in which it will be necessary 
for you to exert yourself, will be, to get positive testi- 
mony from many different hands that such poems aro 
vulgarly recited in the Highlands, and have there long 
been the entertainment of the people. This testimony 
must be as particular as it is positive. It will not be 
sufficient that a Highland gentleman or clergyman say 
or write to you that he has heard such poems ; nobody 
questions that there are traditional poems of that pari 
of the country, where the names of Ossian and Fingal, 
and Oscar and Gaul, are mentioned in every stanza. 
The only doubt is, whether these poems have any far- 
ther resemblance to the poems published by Macpher- 
son. I was told by Bourke,* a very ingenious Irish 
gentleman, the author of a tract on the sublime and 
beautiful, tliat on the first publication of Macpherson's 
book, all the Irish cried out, ' We know all those 
poems. We have always heard them from our infancy.' 
/3ut when he asked more particular questions, he coulci 
never learn that any one ever heard or could repeat the 
original of any one paragraph of the pretended transla- 
tion. This generality, then, must be carefully guarded 
against, as being of no authority. 

" Your connections among your brethren of the 
clergy may be of great use to you. You may easily 
learn the names of all ministers of that country who 
understand the language of it. You may write to 
'.hem, expressing the doubts that liave arisen, and de- 
airing them to send for such of the bards as remain, 
and make them rehearse their ancient poems. Lei 
the clergymen then have the translation in their hands, 
and let them write back to you, and inform you, that 
they heard such a one, (naming him,) living in such a 
place, rehearse the original of such a passage, from 

» So in MS 



A PRELDIINARV DISCOURSE. 9 

such a page to such a page of the English translation, 
which appeared exact and faithful. If you give to the 
public a sufficient number of such testimonials, you 
may prevail. But I venture to foretel to you, that 
nothing less will serve the purpose ; nothing less wil 
so much as command the attention of the public. 

" Becket tells me, ihat he is to give us a new editioi 
of your dissertation, accompanied with some remarks 
on Temora. Here is a favorable opportunity for you 
to execute this purpose. You have a just and laudable 
zeal for the credit of these poems. They are, if genu- 
ine, one of the greatest curiosities, in all respects, that 
ever was discovered in the commonwealth of letters ; 
and the child is, in a manner, become yours by adop- 
tion, as Macpherson has totally abandoned all care of 
it. These motives call upon you to exert yourself: 
and I think it were suitable to your candor, and most 
satisfactoi-y also to the reader, to publish all the an- 
swers to all the letters you write, even though some of 
those letters should make somewhat against your own 
opinion in this affair. We shall always be the more 
assured, that no arguments are strained beyond their 
proper force, and no contraiy arguments suppressed, 
where such an entire communication is made to us. 
Becket joins me heartily in that application ; and he 
owns to me. that th- Delievers in the authenticity of the 
poems diminish every day among the men of sense and 
reflection. Nothing less than what I propose can 
throw the balance on the other side." 

Lisle street, Leicestet Fields, 
]dth Sept., 1763. 

The second letter contains less matter of impor- 
tance ; but what there is that is relevant deserves not 
to be omitted. 

" I am very glad," he writes on the 6th of October, 



10 A Pm:LlT\riNARY DISCOT'RSK. 

1763, " you liavc undertaken the task which 1 usc<l the 
freedom to recommend to you. Nothing less than 
what you propose v/ill serve the purpose. You must 
expect no assistance from Macpherson, v/ho flew into 
a passion when I told him of the letter I had wrote to 
you. But you must not mind so strange and hetero- 
clite a mortal, than whom I have scarce ever known a 
man more perverse and unamiable. Fie will probably 
depart for Florida with Governor Johnstone, and I 
would advise him to travel among the Chickasaws or 
Cherokees, in order to tame and civilize him. 



" Since writing the above, I have been in company 
with Mrs. Montague, a lady of great distinction in this 
place, and a zealous partisan of Ossian. I told her of 
your intention, and even used the freedom to read your 
letter to her. She was extremely pleased with your 
project; and the rather, as the Due de Nivernois, she 
said, had talked to her much on that subject last win- 
ter ; and desired, if possible, to get collected some 
proofs of the authenticit}^ of these poems, which he 
proposed to lay before the Academic de Belles Lettres 
at Paris. You see, then, that you are upon a great 
stage in this inquiry, and that many people have their 
eyes upon you. This is a new motive for rendering 
your proofs as complete as possible. I cannot conceive 
any objection which a man, e^•en of the gravest char- 
acter, could have to your publication of his letters, 
which will only attest a plain fact known to him. 
Such scruples, if they occur, you must endeavor to re- 
move, for on this trial of yours will the judgment of tlio 
public finally depend." * * * 

Without being acquainted with Hume's advice to 



A PREMMINARV DISCOURSE. 11 

Dr. Blair, the committee, composed of chosen persons, 
and assisted by tiie best Celtic scholars, adopted, as it 
will he scca, a very similar manner of acting. 

It conceived the purpose of its nomination to he, to 
employ the influence of the society, and the extensive 
communication which it possesses witli every part of 
the Highlands, in collecting what materials or informa- 
tion it was still practicable to collect, regarding the 
authenticity and nature of the poems ascribed to Os- 
sian, and particularly of that celebrated collection pub- 
lished by Mr. James Macpherson. 

For the purpose above mentioned, the committee, 
soon after its appointment, circulated the following set 
of queries, through such parts of the Highlands and 
Islands, and among such persons resident there, as 
seemed most likely to affiird the information required, 

QUERIES. 

1. Have you ever heard repeated, or sung, any of 
the poems ascribed to Ossian, translated and published 
by Mr. Macpherson ? By whom have you heard them 
so repeated, and at what time or times ? Did you 
ever commit any of them to writing? or can you 
remember them so well as now to set them down ? In 
either of these cases, be so good to send the Gaelic 
original to the committee. 

2. The same answer is requested concerning any 
other ancient poems of the same kind, and relating to 
the same traditionary persons or stories with those in 
Mr. Macpherson's collection. 

3. Are any of the persons from whom you heard 
any such poems now alive ? or are there, in your part 
of the country, any persons who remember and can 
repeat or recite such poems ? If there are, be so good 
ds to examine them as to the manner of their getting 



13 A PFvELIMINARV OISCOURSE. 

or learning such compositions ; and set down, as accu 
lately as possible, such as they can now repeat or re- 
cite ; and transmit such their account, and such com- 
positions as they repeat, to the committee. 

4. If there are, in your neighborhood, any persons 
from whom Mr. Macpherson received any poems, in- 
(juire particularly what the poems were which he so 
received, the manner in which he received them, and 
how he wrote them down ; show those persons, if you 
have an opportunity, his translation of such poems, and 
desire them to say, if the translation is exact and 
literal ; or, if it differs, in what it differs from the 
poems, as they repeated them to Mr. Macpherson, and 
can now recollect them. 

5. Be so good to procure every information you 
conveniently can, with regard to the traditionary belief, 
in the country in which you live, concerning the history 
of Fingal and his followers, and that of Ossian and his 
poems ; particularly those stories and poems published 
by Mr. Macpherson, and the heroes mentioned in 
them. Transmit any such account, and any proverbial 
or traditionary expression in the original Gaelic, rela- 
ting to the subject, to the committee. 

6 In all the above inquiries, or any that may occur 
to in elucidation of this subject, he is re- 

quested by the committee to make the inquiry, and to 
take down the answers, with as much impartiality and 
precision as possible, in the same manner as if it were 
a legal question, and the proof to be investigated with 
a legal strictness. — See the " Report." 

It is presumed as undisputed, that a traditionary his- 
tory of a great hero or chief, called Fion, Fion na 
Gael, or, as it is modernized, Fingal, exists, and has 
immemorially existed, in the Highlands and Islands of 
Scotland, and that certain poems or ballads containing 



A PIIELIMINARV DISCOintSE. l.{ 

llie exploits of him and his associate hcj-ocs, weic i!in 
favorite lore of the natives of those districts. Tiic 
general belief of the existence of such heroic person- 
ages, and the great poet Ossian, the son of Fingal, by 
whom their exploits were sung, is as universal in the 
Highlands, as the belief of any ancient fact whatsoever. 
It is recorded in proverbs, which pass through all ranks 
and conditions of men, Ossian dall, blind Ossian,* is 
a person as well known as strong Sampson, or wise 
Solomon. The veiy boys in their sports cry out for 
fair play, Coihram na feine, the equal combat of the 
Fingalians. Ossian, cm deigh nam jiann, Ossian, the 
last of his race, is proverbial, to signify a man who ha.s 
had the misfortune to survive his kindred ; and servants 
returning from a fair or wedding, were in use to do- 
scribe the beauty of young women they had seen there, 
by the words, Tha i cho ioidheach reh Agandecca, 
nigheawant sneachda, She is as beautiful as Agandecca, 
the daughter of the Snow.f 

All this will be readily conceded, and Mr. Macpher- 
son's being at one period an " indifferent proficient in 
the Gaelic language," may seem an argument of some 
weight against his having himself composed these Os- 
sianic Poems. Of his inaccuracy in the Gaelic, a lu- 
dicrous instance is related in the declaration of Mr- 
Evan Macpherson, at Knock, in Slcat, Sept, 11, 1800. 
He declares that he, " Colonel Macleod, of Talisker, 
and the late Mr. Maclean of Coll, embarked with ]\Ir. 
Macpherson for Uist on the same pursuit : that they 
•anded at Lochmaddy, and proceeded across the Muir 
to Benbecula, the seat of the younger Clanronald : 
that on their way thither they fell in with a man whom 
they afterwards ascertained to have been Mac Codruni, 

* Tw^Xos y' '0/ii»poj.— Lascaris Const, 
t Report, p. 15. 

2 



14 A PRKLIMINARY DISCOURSE. 

the poet : that Mr. Macphcrson asked him the question, 
A bhcil dad agad air an Flieinn ? by which he meant 
to inquire, whether or not he knew any of the poems 
of (Jssian rekitive to the Fingalians : but that the term 
ill which the question was asked, strictly imported 
whether or not the FingaUans owed him any thing ; 
and tliat Mac Codrum, being a man of humor, took* 
advantage of the incorrectness or inelegance of the 
Gaelic in which the question was put, and answered, 
that really if they had owed him any thing, the bonds 
and obligations were lost, and he believed any attempt 
to recover them at that time of day would be unavail- 
ing. Which sally of Mac Codrum's wit seemed to 
liave hurt Mr. Macpherso-n, who cut short the conver- 
sation, and proceeded on towards Benbecula. And the 
declarant being asked whether or not the late Mr. 
James Macpherson was capable of composing such 
poems as those of Ossian, declares most explicitly and 
positively that he is certain Mr. Macpherson was as 
unequal to such compositions as the declarant himself, 
who could no more make them than take wings and 
fly." P. 96. 

We w^ould here observe, that the sufficiency of a 
man's knowledge of such a language as the Gaelic, for 
all the purposes of composition, is not to be questioned, 
because he does not speak* it accurately or elegantly, 
much less is it to be quibbled into suspicion by the 
pleasantry of a douMe entendre. But we hold it pru- 
dent, and it shall be our end(;avor in this place, to give 



*"We doubt not that Mr. Professor Pnrson cold, if he pleased, 
forge a short poeni in Greek, and ascribing it, for instance, tu 
Theocritus, maintain it^ authenticity v/ith considerabl:; force and 
probabiUty ; and yet were it possible for him to speak to the sim- 
plest shepherd of ancient Greece, he would quickly afford as good 
reason, as Mr. Macpherson, to be suspected of being an " inchffer- 
ent proficient" in the language. 



A I'nHhlMI.N.UlV DISCOUnSK. 15 

no decided opinion on the main subject of dispute. 
For us the contention shall still remain suh jiidice. 

To the queries circulated througli such parts of the 
Highlands as the committee imagined most likely to 
afford information in reply to them, they received many 
answers, most of which were conceived in nearly simi- 
lar terms ; that the persons themselves had never 
doubted of the existence of such poems as Mr. Mac- 
/>her3on had translated ; that they had heard many of 
Shem repeated in their youth : that listening to them 
was the favorite amusement of Highlanders, in the 
liours of leisure and idleness ; but that since the rebel- 
lion in 1745, the manners of the people had undergone 
a change so unfavorable to the recitation of these 
poems, that it v/as now an amusement scarcely known, 
and that very few persons remained alive who were 
able to recite them. That many of the poems which 
they had formerly heard were similar in subject and 
story, as well as in the names of the heroes mentioned 
in them, to those translated by I\Ir. Macpherson : that 
his translation seemed, to such as had read it, a very 
able one ; but that it did not by any means come up to 
tiie force or energy of the original to such as had read 
it ; for his book was by no means universally possessed, 
or read among the Highlanders, even accustomed to 
reading, who conceived that his translation could add 
but little to their amusement, and not at all to their 
conviction, in a matter .which they had never doubted. 
A fcw of the committee's correspondents sent them 
such ancient poems as tliey possessed in writing, from 
having formerly taken them down from the oral reci- 
tation of the old Highlanders who were in use to re- 
cite them, or as they now took them down from some 
person, whom a very advanced period of life, or a par- 
ticular connection with some reciter of the old school, 



16 A PRKLIMINARY OIJfCOl'RSE. 

enabled still to retain them in his inemo'v ;* huf t'l-.se, 
the committee's correspondents said. \vcrciz;(T;j:rall\ !'• s 
perfect, and more corrupted, than 'h-- um, ns- --wwch 
they had formerly heard, or which niigh! hn^c ineu 
obtained at an earlier period. f 

Several collections came to ihem i>y [ticscnis, as 
wt^ll as by purchase, and in these are !UiiiHi\)i!s ••. shreds 
and patches,'" that bear a strong rcsmibliioce to the 
materials of which " Ossian's Poems'' arc composed. 
These are of various degrees of consofiiicnce. One 
of them we are the more tempted to ;j:ivc. for the same 
reason as the committee was tlie more solicitous to 
procure it, because it was one v, nich some of the 
opposers of the authenticity of Ossian had quoted as 
evidently spurious, betraying the most convincing marks 
of its being a close imitation of the address to the sun 
in Milton. 

"I got," says Mr. Mac Diarmid,:|: "the copy of 
these poems" (Ossian's address to the sun in Carthon, 
and a similar address in Carricktliura) " about thirty 
years ago, from an old man in Glenlyon. I took it, 
and several other fragments, now, I fear, irrecoverably 
lost, from the man's mouth. He had learnt them in 
his youth from people in the same glen, which must 
have been long before Macpherson was born." 



* The Rev. Mr. Smith, who has published translations of many 
Gaelic poems, accompanied by the originals, assures us, that 
"near himself, in the parish ofKlimnver, lived a person named 
M'Pheal, whom he has heard, for weeks together, from five till ten 
o'clock at night, rehearse ancient poems, and niany of them Os- 
i-ian's. Two otners, called M'Dugal and M'Neil, could entertain 
their hearers in the same manner for a whole winter season. It 
was from persons of this description, undoubtedly, that Macpherson 
recovered a great part of the works of Ossian. A. Macuonald'i 
Prelim. Disc. p. 76. 

t See Report. 

jDate, ApriI9. 1801,p. 71. 



A PRELIM1TAR\ DISCOURSE. 17 



MTfiUAL TRANSLATION OF OSSL.n's ADDRESS TO THS 
SUN IN CARTHON. 

" ! tliou who travellest above, round as the full-orbed 
nard shield of the mighty ! whence is thy brightness 
without frown, thy light that is lastin,^, O sun ? Thou 
comest forth in thy powerful beauty, a^id the stars hide 
their course ; the moon, without strength, goes from 
the sky, hiding herself under a wave in the west. 
Thou art in thy journey alone ; who is so bold as to 
come nigh thee 1 The oak falleth from the high 
mountain ; the rock and the precipice fall under old 
age ; the ocean ebbeth and floweth, the moon is lost 
above in the sky ; but thou alone forever in victoiy, 
in the rejoicing of thy own light. When the storm 
darkcneth around the world, with fierce thunder, and 
piercing lightnings, thou lookest in thy beauty from 
the noise, smiling in the troubled sky! To me is 
thy light in vain, as I can never see thy countenance ; 
though thy yellow golden locks are spread on the 
face of the clouds in the east ; or when thou trem- 
blest in the west, at thy dusky doors in the ocean. 
Perhaps thou and myself are at one time mighty, 
at another feeble, our years sliding down from 
the skies, quickly travelling together to their end. 
Rejoice then, O sun ! while thou art strong, O king ! 
in thy youth. Dark and unpleasant is old age, like 
the va.in and feeble light of the moon, while she looks 
through a cloud on the field, and her gray mist on the 
sides of the rocks ; a blast from the north on the 
plain, a traveller in distress, and he slow." 

The comparison may be made, by turning to the 
end of Mr. Macpher son's version of " Carthon," be- 
ginning " O thou that rollest above. '^^ 

But it must not be concealed, that after all the exer- 
2* 



18 A rREM?.lIx^;ARV DISCOURSE. 

tioas of th(3 committee, it has not been abl-e to obtain 
uiiy one poem, the same in title and tenor with the 
|)oei«s pubHshcd by him. We therefore feel that the 
reaxlcr of " O-ssian's Poems," until grounds more rela. 
tive be j^roduc^d, will often, in the perusal of Mr. Mac 
phcn-son's translations, be induced, with some show of 
jusiire, t-o exclaim with him, when he looked over the 
manusi-r-ipt copies found in Clanronald's family, "D — n 
the scoimdrd, it is he liimself that now speaks, and 
710 1 Ossian '"* 

To this s&nfeimcnt the committee has the candor to 
incline, us it will appear by their summing up. After 
producing or pointing to a large body of mixed evi- 
dence, and taking for granted the existence, at some 
peri(Kl, of an abundance of Ossianic poetry, it comes 
k) the question, " How far tliat collection of such 
poetry, published by Mr. James Macphcrson, is genu- 
ine ?'' To ansv.^er this query decisively, is^ as they 
conf(.^ss, difficult. This, however, is the ingenious 
manner in which they treat it. 

" The committee is possessed of no documents, to 
show how much of his collection Mr. Macpherson 
obtained in the form in which he has given it to the 
world. The poems and fragments of poems which the 
committee has been able to procvu-e, contain, as will 
appear from the article in the Appendix (No. 15) 
already mentioned, often the substance, and sometimes 
almost the literal expression (the ifpsissima verba) of 
passages given by Mr. Macpherson, in the poema of 
which he has published the translations. But the com- 
mittee has not been able to obtain any one poem the 
same in title or tenor with the poems published by him. 
It is inclined to believe, that he was in use to supply 
chasms, and to give connection, by inserting passages 

♦ Report, p. 44. 



A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 19 

which lie -did not find, and to add what he conceived 
to be dignity and deUcacy to the original composition, 
Dy striking out passages, by softening incidents, by re- 
fjjiing the language — in short, by changing what he 
considered as too simple or too rude for a modern ear, 
and elevating what, in his opinion, was belov/ the 
standard of good poetry. To what degree, however, 
he exercised these liberties, it is impossible for the 
committee to determine. The advantages he possess- 
ed, which the committee began its inquiries too late to 
enjoy, of collecting from the oral recitation of a num- 
ber of persons, now no more, a very great number of 
the same poems on the same subjects, and then colla- 
ting those different copies, or editions, if they may bo 
so called, rejecting what was spurious or corrupted in 
one copy, and adopting from another, something more 
genuine and excellent in its place, afforded him an op- 
portunity of putting together what might fairly enough 
be called an original whole, of much more beauty, and 
with much fewer blemishes, than the committee believe 
it now possible for any person, or combination of per- 
sons, to obtain." P. 152-3. 

Some Scotch critics, who should not be ignorant of 
the strongholds and fastnesses of the advocates for 
the authenticity of these poems, appear so convinced 
of their insufficienc}' , that they pronounce the question 
put to rest forever. But we greatly distrust that any 
literary question, possessing a single inch of debateable 
ground to stand upon, will be suffered to enjoy much 
rest in an age like the present. There are as many 
minds as men, and of wranglers there is no end. Be- 
hold another and " another yet," and in our imagina- 
tion, he 

" bears a glass, 
Which shows us many more." 

The first of these is Mr. Laing, who has rec-entiy 



20 A fKKLIMINARy DISCOUR&E. 

pul)lishcd tlic " Poeins of Ossian, &c., containing l^ie 
Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq., in Prose 
and Rhyme : with notes and illustrations. In 2 vols. 
8 vo. Edinburgh, 1805." In these " notes and illus- 
trations," we foresee, that Ossian is likely to share the 
fate of Shakspeare : that is, ultimately to be loaded and 
oppressed by heavy commentators, until his immortal 
spirit groan beneath vast heaps of perishable matter. 
The object of Mr. Laing's commentary, after having 
elsewhere* endeavored to show that the poems arc 
spurious, and of no historical authority, "is," says he, 
" not merely to exhibit parallel passages, much less in- 
stances of a fortuitous resemblance of ideas, but to 
produce the precise originals from which the similes 
and images are indisputably derived. "j" And these he 
pretends to find in Holy Writ, and in the classical 
poets, both of ancient and modern times. Mr. Laing, 
however, is one of those detectors of plagiarisms, and 
discoverers of coincidences, whose exquisite penetar- 
tion and acuteness can find any thing anywhere. Dr. 
Johnson, who was shut against conviction with respect 
to Ossian, even when he affected to seek the truth in 
the heart of the Hebrides, may yet be made uset'ul to 
the Ossianites in canvassing the merits of this redoubted 
stickler on the side of opposition. " Among the innu- 
merable practices," says the Rambler,:}: " by which in- 
terest or envy have taught those who live upon literary 
fame to disturb each other at their airy banquets, one 
of the most common is the charge of plagiarism. 
When the excellence of a new composition can no 
longer be contested, and malice is compelled to give 



* In his Critical and ICstorical Dissertation on th« Antiquity at 

Ossian's Poems, 
t Preface, p. v 
J No. 143. 



A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. SI 

way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this one 
expedient to be tried, by which the author may be de- 
graded, though his work be reverenced ; and the ex- 
cellence which we cannot obscm-e, may be set at such 
a distance as not to overpower our fair^ter ktstre. 
This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it 
is false, it may be sometimes urged with probability." 

How far this just sentence applies to Mr. Laing, it 
does not became us, aor is it our business, now to de-. 
clare : but we must say, that nothing can be more dis- 
ingenuous or groundless than his frequent charges of 
plagiarism of the following description ; because, in the 
War of Caros, we meet with these words, "It is like 
the field, when darkness covers the hills around, and 
the shadow grows slowly on the plain of the sun," we 
are to believe, according to Mr. Laing, that the idea 
was stolen from Virgil's 

Major esque cadunt altis de montibus umbra. 

For see, yon sunny hills the shade extend. — Dryden. 

As well might we credit that no oik ever beheld a 
natural phenomenon except the Mantuan bard.* The 
hook of nature is open to all, and in her pages there 
are no new readings. " Many subjects," it is well 
said by Johnson, " fall under the consideration of an 
author, which, being limited by nature, can admit only 
of slight and accidental diversities. All definitions of 
the same thing must be nearly the same ; and descrip- 
tions, which are definitions of a more lax and fancifu) 
kind, must always have, in some degree, that resem- 
blance to each other, which they all have to their ob- 
ject." 



* This is not so good, because not so amusing In its absurdity, as 
an attempt formerly made to prove the JEne'id E arse, from " Arraa 
virumque cano," and " Airm's am fear canam," having the eame 
meaning, and nearly the same sound. 



2'^ A PI7EL1MINATIY niSrOTTRSK. 

It is true, however, if we wore fully able to admit 
that Macphcrson could not have obtained these ideas 
where he professes to have found them, Mr. Laing hfis 
produced many instances of such remarkable coincv 
dcnce as would make it probable that Macphcrson fns 
quontly translates, not the Gaelic, but the poetical lore 
of antiquity. Still this is a battery that can only be 
brought to play on particular points ; and then with great 
uncertainty. The mode of attack used by Mr. Knight, 
could it have been carried on to any extent, would 
have proved much more effectual. We shall give the 
instance alluded to. In his " Analytical Enquiry into 
the Principles of Taste, 1805," he makes these re- 
marks : 

" The untutored, but uncorrupted feelings of all un- 
polished nations,*have regulated their fictions upon the 
same principles, even when most rudely exhibited. In 
relating the actions of their gods and deceased heroes, 
they are licentiously extravagant : for their falsehood 
could amuse, because it could not be detected ; but in 
describing the common appearances of nature, and all 
those objects and effects which are exposed to habitual 
observation, their bards are scrupulously exact ; so 
that an extravagant hyperbole, in a matter of this kind, 
is sufficient to mark as counterfeit any composition 
attributed to them. In the early stages of society, men 
are as acute and accurate in practical observation as 
they are limited and deficient in speculative science ; 
and in proportion as they are ready to give up thcnr 
imaginations to delusion, they are jealously tenacious 
of the evidence of their senses. James Macphcrson, 
in the person of his blind bard, could say, with applause 
In the eighteenth century, • Thus have I seen in Cona ; 
but Cona I behold no more : thus have I seen two dark 
hills removed from their place by the strength of the 
mountain stream. They turn from side to side, and 



A PRELnriNARY jniSCOURSE. 23 

their tall oaks meet one another on high. Then they 
(all togetlior with all their rocks and trees.' 

•■'But had a blind bard, or any other bard, presumed 
to utter such a rhapsody of bombast in 'the hall of 
shells, amid the savage warriors to whom Ossian is 
supposed to have sung, he would have needed all the 
inlluence of royal birth, attributed to that fabulous per 
ponagc, to restrain the audience from throwing their 
shells at his head, and hooting him out of their com- 
pany as an impudent liar. They must have been suf- 
ficiently acquainted with the rivulets of Cona or Glen- 
Cvje to know that he had seen nothing of the kind ; and 
liave known enough of mountain torrents in general to 
know that no such effects are ever produced by them, 
and would, therefore, have indignantly rejected such a 
barefaced attempt to impose on their credulity." 

The best defence that can be set up in this case will, 
perhaps, be to repeat, " It is he himself that now 
speaks, and not Ossian." 

:vlr. Laing had Gcarccly tlirown down the gauntlet, 
when Mr. Archibald M'Donald* appeared 

" Ready, aye, ready, f lor the field. 

The opinion of the color of his opposition, whether 
it be that of truth or error, will depend on the eye that 
contemplates it. Those who delight to feast with Mr. 
Laing on the Ihnbs of a mangled poet, will think the 
latter unanswered ; while thoseij: who continue to in- 



* " Some of Ossian's lesser Poems, rendered into verse, with a 
pjeliminary Discourse, in answer to Mr. Laing's Critical and His- 
torical Dissertation on the Antiquity of Ossian's Poems, 8 vo. p 
2'-4. Liverpool, 1S<)5." 

t Thirlestane's motto. See Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel. 

i A professor in the university of Edinburgh, the amiable and 
It'arneu Dr. Gregory, is on th^ side of the believers in Ossian. His 
judgment is a tower of strengiu See the preface, p. vi. to xii and 



24 A PRKLIMINAKY DISCOURSE. 

dulge the animating thought. " that Fingal lived, and 
that Ossian sung," will entertain a different sentiment. 
After successfully combating several old positions,* 
Mr. M'Donald terminates his discussion of the point at 
issue with these words : 

" He (Mr. Laing) declares, 'if a single poem of Os- 
sian in MS. of an older date than the present century 
(1700,) be procured and lodged in a public library, I 
(Laing) shall return among the nrsi to om* national 
creed.' 

" This is reducing the point at issue to a narrow 
compass. Had the proposal been made at the outset, 
it would have saved both him and me a good deal of 
trouble : not that in regard to ancient Gaelic manu- 
scripts I could give any more satisfactory account than 
has been done in the course of this discourse . There 
the reader will see, that though some of the poems arc 
confessedly procured from oral tradition, yet scve.r-.ii 
gentlemen of veracity attest to have seen, among 
Macpherson's papers, several MSS. of a much older 
date than Mr. Laing requires to be convinced. Though 
not more credulous than my neighbors, I cannot resist 
facts so well attested ; there are no stronger for be- 
lieving the best-established human transactions. 

" I understand the originals are in the press, and ex- 
pected daily to make their appearance. When they 
do, the public will not be carried away by conjectures, 
but be able to judge on solid grounds. Till then, let 
the discussion be at rest." P. 193-4. 



p. 146, of his Comparative View of the State and Faculties of Man 
with those of the Animal World. 

* Such as the silence of Ossian in respect to religion ; his omis- 
sion of wolves and bears, &c. See also in the Literary Journal, 
August, 1804, a powerful encounter of many of Mr. Lain^'s other 
arguments in his Dissertation against the authenticity of these po- 
ems. His ignorance of the Gaelic, and the consequent futility of 
hia etymological remarks, are there ably exposed. 



A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 25 

It is curious to remark, and, in this place, not un. 
worthy of our notice, that whilst the controversy is 
imminent in the decision, whether these poems are to 
be ascribed to a Highland bard long since gone " to 
the halls of his fathers," or to a Lowland muse of the 
last century, it is in the serious meditation of some 
controversialist to step in and place the disputed wreath 
on the brows of Hibernia. There is no doubt that 
Ireland was, in ancient times, so much connected with 
the adjacent coast of Scotland, that they might almost 
be considered as one country, having a community of 
manners and of language, as well as the closest politi- 
cal connection. Their poetical language is nearly, or 
rather altogether the same. These coinciding circum- 
stances, therefore, independent of all other ground, 
afford to ingenuity, in the present state of the question, 
a sufficient basis for the erection of an hypothetical su- 
perstructure of a very imposing nature. 

In a small volume published at Dusseldorf in 1787, 
by Edmond, Baron de Harold, an Irishman, of endless 
titles,* we are presented with what are called, " Poems 
of Ossian lately disco vered."f 

'• I am interested," says the baron in his preface, 
''in no polemical dispute or party, and give these 
poems such as they are found in the mouths of the peo- 
pie ; and do not pretend to ascertain what was the na- 
tive country of Ossian. I honor and revere equally a 



* " Colonel-commander of the regiment of Konigsfield, gentle- 
man of the bedchamber of his most serene highness the Elector 
Palatine, member of the German Society of Manheim, of the 
Jloyal Antiquarian Society of London, and of the Academy of 
Dusseldon." 

t In some lines in these poems we find the lyre of Ossiart called 
" the old Hibernian lyre." The idea is not new. See Burke's 
Observation in Hume's first Letter to Dr. Blair. Also, the collec- 
lions by Miss Brooke and Mr. Kennedy. Compare the story ot 
Conloch with that of Carthon in Macpherson. 

;^ 



26 A PRELIMINARY DISCOUKSE. 

bard of his exalted talents, were he born in Ireland or 
in Scotland. It is certain that the Scotch and Irish 
were united at some early period. That they proceed 
from the same origin is indisputable ; nay, I believe 
that it is proved beyond any possibility of negating it, 
that the Scotch derive their origin from the Irish. 
This truth has been brought in question but of late 
days ; and all ancient tradition, and the general con- 
sent of the Scotch nation, and of their oldest historians, 
agree to confirm the certitude of this assertion. If 
any man still doubts of it, he will find, in Macgeoge- 
han's History of Ireland, an entire conviction, estab- 
lished by elaborate discussion, and most incontroverti- 
ble proofs :" pp. V. vi. 

We shall not stay to quarrel about " Sir Arch.y's 
great grandmother,"* or to contend that Fingal, the 
Irish giantjf did not one day go '^ over from Carrick- 

*See Macklin's Love A-la-mode. 

f'Selma is not at all known in Scotland. When I asked, and 
particularly those who wme possessed of any poetry, songs, or 
tales, who Fion was 1 (for he i^ not known by the name of f'inffal 
by any ;) I was answered, that he was an Irishman, if a man ; Tor 
they sometimes thought him a giant, and that he lived in Ireland, 
and sometimes came over to hunt in the Highlands. 

" Like a true Scotchman, in order to make his composition more 
acceptable to his countrymen, Mr. Macpher.^on changes the name 
of Fion Mac Cumhal, the Irishman, into Fingal ; which, indeed, 
sounds much better, and sets him up a Scotch king over the ideal 
kingdom of ]\Iorveu in the west of Scotland. It had been a better 
argument for the authenticity, if he had allowed him to be an 
Irishman, and made Morven an Irish kingdom, as well as Ire-land 
the scene of his battles, but a.s he must need make the hero of an 
epic poem a great character, it was too great honor for any other 
country but Scotland to have given birth to so considerable a per- 
sonage. All the authentic histories of Ireland give a full account 
of Fingal or Fion Mac Cunihal's actions, and any one who will 
take the trouble to look at Dr. Keating's, or any other history of 
that country, will find the matter related as above, whereas, in the 
Chronicon Scotorum, froni which the list of the Scotch kings is 
taken, and the pretended MSS. they so much boast of to be seen 
in the Hebrides, there is not one syllable said of such a name as 
Fingal." — An Enquiry into the Authenticity of the Poems of Os- 



X PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 27 

fergus, and people all Scotland with his own hands," 
and make thes(3 sons of the north " illegifhnate ;^' but 
we may observe, that from the inclination of the 
baron's opinion, added to the internal evidence of his 
poems, there appears at least as much reason to believe 
their author to have been a native of Ireland as of 
Scotland. The success with which Macpherson's en- 
deavors liad been rewarded, induced the baron to in- 
quire whether any more of this kind of poetry could be 
obtained. His search, he confesses, would have proved 
fruitless, had he expected to find complete pieces ; 
" for, certainly," says he, " none such exist. But," he 
adds, " in seeking with assiduity and care, I found, 
by the help of my friends, several fragments of old 
traditionary songs, v/hich were very sublime, and par- 
ticularly remarkable for their simplicity and elegance." 
P. iv. 

'' From these fragments," continues Baron de Har- 
old, '' I have composed the following poems. They 
arc all founded on ti-adition ; but the dress they now 
appear in is mine. It will appear singular to some, 
that Ossian, at times, especially in the songs of Com- 
fort, seejiis rathe}' to be an Hibernian than a Scotchman, 
and that some of these poems formally contradict pas- 
sages of great importance in those handed to the pub- 
lic by Mr. Macpherson. especially that very remarka- 
ble one of Evir-allen, where the description of her 
marriage with Ossian is essentially different in all its 
parts from that given in former poems." P. v. 



sian, by W. Shaw, A. M., F. S. A., author of the Gaelic Dictionary 
and Grammar. London, 1781. 

Mr. Shaw crowns his want of faith in Macpherson's Ossian witn 
this piece of information. " A gentleman promised to ornament 
a scalloped shell with silver, if I should bnag him one from the 
Highlands, and to swear that it was the identical shell out of which 
Fii'.gal used to drink."— A gentleman ! 



38 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 

We refer the reader to the opening of the fourtli 
book of Fingal, which treats of Ossian's courtship of 
Evir-allen. The Evir-allen of Baron de Harold is in 
these words : 



EVIR-ALLEN: 

A POEM. 

Thou fairest of the maids of Morven, young beam 
of streamy Lutlia, come to the lielp of the aged, come 
to the help of the distressed. Thy soul is open to pity. 
Friendship glows in thy tender breast. Ah come and 
soiAh away my wo. Thy words are music to my 
soul. 

Bring me my once-loved harp. It hangs long neg- 
lected in my hall . The stream of years has borne me 
away in its course, and rolled away all my bliss. Dim 
and faded are my eyes ; thin-strewed with hairs my 
liead. AVeak is that nervous arm, once the terror of 
foes. Scarce can I grasp ray staff, the prop of my 
tx-embling limbs. 

Lead me to yonder craggy steep. The murmur ol 
the falling streams ; the whistling winds rushing through 
the woods of my hills ; the welcome rays of the boun- 
teous sun, will soon awake the voice of song in my 
breast. The thoughts of former years glide over my 
soul like swift-shooting meteors o'er Ardven's gloomy 
vales. 

Come, ye friends of my youth, ye soft-sounding 
voices of Cona, bend from your gold-tinged clouds, 
and join me in my song. A mighty blaze is kindled 
in my soul. I hear a powerful voice. It says, " Seize 
thy beam of glory, O bard ! for thou shalt soon depart. 
Soon shall the light of song be faded. Soon thy tuneful 



A rHELlMINARY DISCOURSE. 29 

voice forgotten." — " Yes, I obey, O powerful voice, 
for thou art pleasing to mine ear.'' 

O Evir-allen ! thou boast of Erin's maids, thy thoughts 
come streaming on my soul. Hear, O Malvina ! a tale 
of my youth, the actions of my former days. 

Peace reigned over Morven's hills. The shell of 
joy resounded in our halls. Round the blaze of the 
oak sported in festive dance the maids of Morven. 
They shone like the radiant bow of heaven, when the 
fiery rays of the setting sun brightens its varied sides. 
They wooed me to their love, but my heart was silent, 
cold. Indifference, like a brazen shield, covered my 
frozen heart. 

Fingal saw, he smiled, and mildly spoke : My son, 
the down of youth grows on thy cheek. Thy arm has 
wielded the spear of war. Foes have felt thy force. 
Morven's maids are fair, but fairer are the daughters 
of Erin. Go to that happy isle ; to Branno's grass- 
covered fields. The daughter of my friend deserves 
thy love. Majestic beauty flows around her as a robe, 
and innocence, as a precious veil, heightens her youth- 
ful charms. Go, take thy arms, and win the lovely 
fair. 

Straight I obeyed. A chosen band followed my 
steps. We mounted the dark-bosomed ship of the 
king, spread its white sails to the winds, and ploughed 
through the foam of ocean. Pleasant shone the fine- 
eyed UU-Erin.'^" With joyal songs we cut the liquid 
way. The moon, regent of the silent night, gleamed 
majestic in the blue vault of heaven, and seemed 
pleased to bathe her side in the trembling wave. My 
soul was full of my father's words. A thousand 
thoughts divided my wavering mind. 

Soon as the early beam of morn appeared; we saw 

♦ The guiding star to Ireland. 
3* 



30 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 

the green-skirted sides of Erin advancing in the bosom 
of the sea. White broke the tumbhng surges on the 
coast. 

Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel to 
the shore, and gained the lofty beach. I inquired after 
the generous Branno. A son of Erin led us to his 
halls, to the banks of the sounding Lego. He said, 
"Many warlike youths are assembled to gain the dark- 
haired maid, the beauteous Evir-allen. Branno will 
give her to the brave. The conqueror shall bear away 
the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the maid, for she is 
destined for the strong in arms." 

These words inflamed my breast, and roused courage 
in my heart. I clad my limbs in steel. I grasped a 
shining spear in my hand. Branno saw our approach. 
He sent the gray-haired Snivan to invite us to his feast, 
and know tlie intent of our course. He came with the 
solemn steps of age, and gravely spoke the words of 
the chief. 

" Whence arc these arms of steel ? If friends ye 
come, Branno invites you to his halls ; for this day 
the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the warrior's arms 
whose lanco shall shine victorious in the combat of 
valor." 

" O venerable bard !" I said, " peace guides my steps 
to Branno. My arm is young, and few are my deeds 
in war, but valor inflames my soul ; I am of the race 
of the brave." 

The bard departed. We followed the steps of age, 
and soon arrived to Branno's halls. 

The hero came to meet us. Manly serenity adorn- 
ed his brow. His open front showed the kindness of 
his heart. " Welcome," he said, " ye sons of stran- 
gers ; welcome to Branno's friendly halls ; partake his 
shell of joy. Share in the combat of S})cars. Not 
unworthy is the prize of valor, the lovely dark-haired 



A TKELLMINARY DISCOURSE. 31 

maid of Kr'm ; but strong must l:>e that warrior's hand 
that conquers Erin's chiefs ; matchless his strength in 
fight." 

" Chief," I repUed, '•' the light of my father's deeds 
blazes in my soul. Though young, I seek my beam 
of glory foremost in the ranks of foes. Warrior, I can 
fall, but I shall fall with renown," 

'• Happy is thy father, O generous youth ! n>ore 
happy the maid of thy love. Thy glory shall surround 
her with praise ; thy valor raise her cba'rms. O were 
my Evir-allcn thy spouse, my years would pass away 
in joy. Pleased I would descend into the grave : con- 
fented see the end of my days." 

The feast was spread : stately and slow came Evir- 
ullcn. A snow-white veil covered her blushing face. 
Mer large blue eyes were bent on earth. Dignity 
Howed round her graceful steps. A shining tear fell 
gliLtering on her cheek. She appeared lovely as the 
mountain flower when the ruddy beams of the rising 
sun gleam on its dew-covered sides. Decent she sate. 
High beat my fluttering heart. Swift through my 
veins flew my thrilling blood. An unusual weight op- 
pressed my breast. 1 stood, darkened in my place. 
The image of the maid wandered over my troubled 
soul. 

The sprightly harp's melodious voice arose from the 
string of the bards. My soul melted away in the 
sounds, for my heart, like a stream, flowed gently 
away in song. Murmurs soon broke upon our joy. 
Half-unsheathed daggers gleamed. Many a voice was 
heard abrupt. " Shall the son of the strangers be pre- 
ferred ? Soon shall he be rolled away, like mist by 
the rushing breath of the tempest." Sedate I rose, for 
i despised the boaste/'s threats. The fair one's eye 
followed my departure. I heard a smothered sigh 
bujsl from her breast. 



32 A PREMMINARY DISCOURSE. 

The horn's harsh sound summoned us to the doubt- 
ful strife of spears. Lothmar, fierce hunter of the 
woody Galmal, first opposed his might. He vainly- 
insulted my youth, but my sword cleft his brazen shield, 
and cut his ashen lance in twain. Straight I with- 
held my descending blade. Lothmar retired confused. 

Then rose the red-haired strength of Sulin. Fierce 
rolled his deep-sunk eye. His shaggy brows stood 
erect. His face was contracted with scorn. Thrice 
his spear pierced my buckler. Thrice his sword struck 
on my helm. Swift flashes gleamed from our circling 
blades. The pride of my rage arose. Furious I rushed 
on the chief, and stretched his bulk on the plain. 
Groaniftg he fell to earth. Lego's shores re-eohoed 
from his fall. 

Then advanced Cormac, graceful in glittering arms. 
No fairer youth was seen on Erin's grassy hills. His 
age was equal to mine ; his port majestic ; his stature 
tall and slender, like the young shooting poplar in Lu« 
tha's streamy vales ; but sorrow sate upon his brow ; 
languor reigned on his cheek. My heart inclined to 
the youth. My sword oft avoided to wound ; often 
sought to save his days : but ho rushed eager on death. 
He fell. Blood gushed from his panting breast. Tears 
flowed streaming from mine eyes. I stretched forth 
my hand to the chief. I proffered gentle words of 
peace. Faintly he seized my hand. " Stranger," he 
said, "I willingly die, for my days were oppressed with 
wo. Evir-allen rejected my love. She slighted my 
tender suit. Thou alone deservest the maid, for pitj 
reigns in thy soul, and thou art generous and brave. 
Tell her, I forgive her scorn. Tell her, I descend 
with joy into the grave ; but raise the stone of my 
praise. Let the maid throw a flower on my tomb, 
and mingle one tear with my dust ; this is my sole re- 
quest. This sl.e can grant to my shade." 



A rRELIBIINARY DISCO'JRSE. 33 

I would have spoken, but broken sighs issuing from 
my breast, interrupted my faltering words. I threw 
my spear aside. 1 clasped the youth in my arms : bui, 
alas ! his soul was already departed to the cloudy man- 
sions of his fathers. 

I'hcn thrice I raised my voice, and called the chiefs 
to combat. Thrice I brandished my spear, and wield- 
ed my glittering sword. No warrior appeared. They 
dreaded the force of my arm, and yielded the blue- 
eyed maid. 

Three days I remained in Branno's halls. On the 
fourth he led me to the chambers of the fair. She 
came forth attended by her maids, graceful in lovely 
majesty, like the moon, when all the stars confess her 
8way, and retire respectful and abashed. I laid my 
sword at her feet. Words of love flowed faltering 
from my tongue. Gently she gave her hand. J^y 
seized my enraptured soul. Branno was touched at 
the sight. He closed me in his aged arms. 

" O v/ert thou," said he, " the son of my friend, the 
son of the mighty Fingal, then were my happiness 
complete !"' 

" I am, I am the son of thy friend," I replied, " Os- 
sian, the son of Fingal ;" then sunk upon his aged 
breast. Our flowing tears mingled together. We re- 
mained long clasped in each other's arms. 

Such v/as my youth, O Malvina ! but alas ! I am now 
forlorn. Darkness covers my soul. Yet the light of 
song beams at times on my mind. It solaces awhile 
my wo. Bards, prepare my tomb. Lay me by the 
fair Evir-allen. When the revolving years bring back 
the mild season of spring to our hills, sing the praise 
of Cona's bard, of Ossian, the friend of the distressed. 

The diflerence, in many material circumstances, be- 
tween these two descriptions of, as it would seem, the 



34 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 

same thing, must be very apparent. "I will submit," 
says the baron, ^' the sokition of this problem to the 
public." We shall follow his example. 

The Honorable Henry Grattan, to whom the baron 
dedicartes his work, has said, that the poems which it 
contains are calculated to inspire " valor, wisdom, and 
virtue." It is true, that they are adorned with nume- 
rous beauties both of poetry and morality. They are 
still farther distinguished and illumined by noble allu- 
sions to the Omnipotent, which cannot fail to strike the 
reader as a particular in which they remarkably vary 
from those of Mr. Macphcrson. ''In his," says our 
author, '' there is no mention of the Divinity. In these, 
the chief characteristic is the many solemn descriptions 
of the Almighty Being, which give a degree of eleva- 
tion to them unattainable by enay other method. It is 
worthy of observation how the bard gains in sublimity 
by his magnificent display of the power, bounty, eter- 
nity, and justice of God : and every reader must re- 
joice to find the venerable old warrior occupied in de- 
scriptions so worthy his great and comprehensive 
genius, and to see him freed from the imputation of 
atheism, with which he had been branded by many sa- 
gacious and impartial men." P. vi. 

We could willingly transcribe more of these poems, 
but we have already quoted enough to show the style 
of them, and can spare space for no additions. " La- 
mer, a poem," is, the baron thinks, of a more ancient 
date than that of Ossian, and " the model, perhaps, of 
his compositions." Another, called " Sitric," king of 
Dublin, which throws some light on the histoiy of those 
times, he places in the ninth century. What faith, 
however, is to be put in the genuineness of the " Frag- 

* If Mr. Laing should choose to take the trouble of passing them 
through his alembic; they may easily be disposed of. For instance, 
*' Larnel, or the Song of despair :" 



A rRELlMiiNARY DISCOURSE. 35 

mejits,-'* which Baron de Harold assures us furnished 
him with the ground- work of these poems, we leave it 
\o others to ascertain. Our investigation is confined 
.vithin far narrower limits. 

It has, without doubt, been observed that in noticing 
what has transpired on this subject since our last edi» 
tion, we have carefully avoided any dogmatism on the 
question collectedly; and having simply displayed a 
torch to show the paths which lead to the labyrinth, 
those who wish to venture more deeply into its intrica- 
cies, may, when they please, pursue them. 

We must acknowledge, before we depart, that we 
cannot see \vithout indignation, or rather pity, the be- 
lief of some persons that these poems are the offspring 
of Macpherson's genius, so operating on their minds as 
to turn their admiration of the ancient poet into contempt 
of the modern. We ourselves love antiquity, not merely 
however, on account of its antiquity, but because it de- 
serves to be loved. No : we honestly own with Quin- 
tilian, in qulbusdam antiquorum, vix rlsiim, in qiiibus- 
dam aiitem vix somnuni tenej'e.* The songs of other 
times, when they are, as they frequently are, supremely 
beautiful, merit every praise, but we must not there- 
fore despise all novelty. In the days of the Theban 
bard, it would seem to have been otherwise, for he ap- 



" The dreary night-owl screams in the solitary retreat of his 
mouldering ivy-cpvered tower," p. 163. Taken from the Persian 
I)oet Quoted by Gibbon : 

" The owl hath sung her watch-song in the towers of Afrasiab " 

"All nature is consonant to the horrors of my mind." Larnel, 
p. 163. Evidently from the rhythmas of the Portuguese poet. One 
m despair, calls the desolation of nature 

" lugar conforme a meu cuidado." 

Obras de Camoens, t. iii. p. 115 

Mr. Laing may pronounce this learned, but it is at any rate oa 
foolish as it is learned. 

* Quintilian or Tacitus de Oratoribus. 



36 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 

pears to give the preference to old wine, but new 
songs — 

aivci Se Tva^aiov 
fitv oivov, avdca (5' lnvfav 
veurepcv. — Find. Ol. Od. ix. 

With respect to age in wine we are tolerably agreed, 
but we differ widely in regard to novelty in verse. 
Though warranted in some measure, yet all inordinate 
prepossessions should be moderated, and it would be 
well if we were occasionally to reflect on this question, 
if the ancients had been so inimicable to norelty as we 
are, what would now be old ?* 

We shall not presume to affirm that these poems 
were originally produced by Macpherson, but admit- 
ting it, for the sake of argument, it would then, per- 
haps, be just to ascribe all the mystery that has hung 
about them to the often ungenerous dislike of novelty, 
or, it may be more truly, the efforts of contemporaries, 
which influences the present day. This might have 
stimulated him to seek in the garb of " th' olden time,'* 
that respect which is sometimes despiteful ly denied to 
drapeiy of a later date. Such a motive doubtlessly 
swayed the designs both of Chatterton and Ireland, 
whose names v/e cannot mention together without 
Dryden's comment on Spenser and Flecknoe, " that is, 
from the top to the bottom of all poetry." In ushering 
into the world the hapless, but beautiful muse of Chat 
terton, as well as the contemptible compositions of Ire- 
land, it was alike thought necessary, to secure public 
attention, to have recourse to " quaint Inglis," or an an- 
tique dress. And to the eternal disfrrace of preju- 
dice, the latter, merely in consequp/ice of their dis- 
guise, found men blind enough to arlvocate their claims 
to that admiration which, on theiv eyes being opened, 

♦ See Horace. 



A TRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. o? 

they could no longer see, and from the su{)port of 
which they shrunk abashed. 

But we desist. It is useless to draw conclusions, aa 
it is vain to reason with certain people who act un- 
reasonably, since, if they were, in these particular 
cases, capable of reason, they would need no reasoning 
with. By some, the poems here published will be 
esteemed in proportion as the argument for their an- 
tiquity prevails ; but with regard to the general reader, 
and the unaffected lovers of " heaven-descended poesy,'' 
let the question take either way, still 

The harp in Sehna was not idly strung, 
And long sliall last the themes our poet sung. 

Berrathon. 
Feb. 1, 1806. 



PREFACE. 



Without increasing bis genius, the author may have 
improved his language, in the eleven years thai the 
tbllowing poems have been in the hands of the public. 
Errors in diction might have been committed at twenty, 
four, which the experience of a riper age may remove ; 
and some exuberances in imagery may be restrained 
with advantage, by a degree of judgment acquired in 
the progress of time. Impressed with this opinion, he 
ran over the whole with attention and accuracy ; and 
he hopes he has brought the work to a state of correct- 
ness which will preclude all future improvements. 

The eagerness with which these poems have been 
received abroad, is a recompense for the coldness with 
which a few have aftected to treat them at home. All 
the polite nations of Europe have transferred them into 
their respective languages ; and they speak of him who 
brought them to light, in terms that might flatter the 
vanity of one fond of fame. In a convenient indiffer- 
ence for a literary reputation, the author hears praise 
without being elevated, and ribaldry without being de- 
pressed. He has frequently seen the first bestowed 
too precipitately ; and the latter is so faithless to its 
purpose, that it is often the only index to merit in the 
present age. 

Though the taste which defines genius by the points 
of the compass, is a subject fit for mirth in itself, it is 



I'KEl-ACE. 39 

often a serious matter in tiie sale of the work. When 
rivers define the limits of abilities, as well as the boun- 
daries of countries, a writer may measure his success 
by the latitude under wliich he was born. It was to 
avoid a part of this inconvenience, that the author ia 
said b^ some, who speak without any authority, to have 
ascribed his own productions to another name. If 
this was the case, he was but young in the art of decep- 
tion. When he placed the poet in antiquity, the 
translator should have been born on this side of the 
Tweed. 

These observations regard only the frivolous in mat- 
ters of literature ; these, however, form a majority of 
every age and nation. In this country men of genuine 
taste abound ; but their still voice is drowned in the 
clamors of a multitude, who judge by fashion of poetry, 
as of dress. The truth is, to judge aright, requires 
almost as much genius as to write well ; and good 
critics are as rare as great poets. Though two hun- 
dred thousand Romans stood up when Virgil came into 
the theatre, Varius only could correct the ^neid. He 
that obtains fame must receive it through mere fashion ; 
and gratify his vanity with the applause of men, of 
whose judgment he cannot approve. 

The following poems, it must be confessed, are more 
calculated to please persons of exquisite feelings of 
heart, than those who receive all their impressions by 
the ear. The novelty of cadence, in what is called a 
prose version, though not destitute of harmony, will 
not, to common readers, supply the absence of the fre- 
quent returns of rhyme. This was the opinion of the 
writer himself, though he yielded to the judgment of 
others, in a mode, which presented freedom and dignity 
of expression, instead of fetters, which cramp the 
thought, whilst the havmony of language is preserved. 
His intention was to publish inverse. — The making of 



40 PREFACE. 

poetry, like any other handicraft, may be learned by 
industry ; and he had served liis apprenticeship, though 
in secret, to the Muses. 

It is, however, doubtful, whether the harmony which 
these poems might derive from rhyme, even in much 
better hands than those of the translator, could atone 
for the simplicity and energy which they would lose. 
The determination of this point shall bo left to the 
readers of this preface. Tlie following is the begin, 
ning of a poem, translated from the Norse to the 
Gaelic language ; and, from the latter, transferred in- 
to English. The vei-se took little more time to the 
writer than the prose ; and he himself is doubtful (if he 
has succeeded in either) which of them is the most 
literal version. 

FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE. 

Where Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er Loch- 
linn* his high commands ; where, with justice, he ruled 
the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath his sword ; ab- 
rupt rises Gormalf in snow ! the tempests roll dark on 
his sides, but calm, above, his vast forehead appears. 
White-issuing from the skirt of his storms, the troubled 
torrents pour down his sides. Joining, as they roar 
along, they bear the Torno, in foam, to the main. 

Gray on the bank, and far from men, half-covered, 
by ancient pines, from the wind, a lonely pile exalts 
its head, long shaken by the storms of the north. To 
this fled Sigurd, fierce in fi,^ht, from Harold the leader 
of armies, when fate had brightened his spear with re- 
nown : when he conquered in that rude field, where 
Lulan's warriors fell in blood, or rose in terror on the 
waves of the main. Darkly sat the gray-haired chief; 

♦ The Gaelic name of Scandinavia, or Scandinia 
♦■The mountains of Sevo. 



PREFACE. 41 

yet sorrow dwelt not in his soul. But when the war- 
rior thought on the past, his proud heart heaved 
against his side : forth flew his sword from its place : 
he wounded Harold in all the winds. 

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form and 
mild of soul, the last beam of the setting line, remained 
to Sigurd of all his race. His son, in Lulan's battle 
slain, beheld not his father's flight from his foes. Nor 
finished seemed the ancient line ! The splendid beauty 
of bright-eyed Fithon covered still the fallen king with 
renown. Her arm was white like Gormal's snow ; her 
bosom whiter than the foam of the main, when roll the 
waves beneath the wrathof the winds. Like tv/o stars 
were her radiant eyes, like two stars that rise on the 
deep, when dark tumult embroils the night. Pleasant 
are their beams aloft, as stately they ascend the skies. 

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form 
scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around 
her stately steps. Heroes loved — but shrunk away in 
their fears. Yet, midst the pride of all her charms, her 
heart was soft and her soul was kind. She saw the 
mournful with tearful eyes. Transient darkness arose 
in her breast. Her joy was in the chase. Each 
morning, when doubtful light wandered dimly on Lu- 
lan's waves, she roused the resounding woods to Gor- 
mal's head of snow. Nor moved the maid alone, &;c. 

The same versified. 

Where fair-hair'd Harold, o'er Scandinia reign'd, 
And held with justice what his valor gain'd, 
Scvo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears, 
And, o'er the warfare of his storms, appears 
Abrupt and vast. — White \vandering down his side 
A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide, 
Unite below, and, pouring through the plain. 
Hurry the troubled Tor no to the main. 
4* 



42 PREFACi:. 

Gray, on the bank, remote from human kind, 
By aged pines lialf-shelter'd from the wind, 
A homely mansion rose, of antique form, 
For ages batter'd by the polar storm. 
To this, fierce Sigurd fled from Norway's lord, 
When fortune settled on the warrior's sword, 
In that rude field; where Suecia's chiefs were slain, 
Or forc'd to wander o'er the Bothoic main. 
Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes. 
But when the memory of defeat arose, 
His proud heart struck his side ; he grasp'd the spear. 
And wounded Harold in the vacant air. 

One daughter only, but of form divine. 
The last fair beam of the departing line, 
Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike son 
Fell in the shock which overturned the throne. 
Nor desolate the house ! Fionia's charms 
Sustain'd the glory which they lost in arms. 
White was her arm as Sevo's lofty snow, 
Her bosom fairer than the waves below 
When heaving to the winds. Her j-adiant eyes 
Like two bright stars, exulting as they rise, 
O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night, 
And gladd'ning heaven with their majestic light. 

In nought is Odin to the maid unkind, 
Her form scarce equals her exalted mind ; 
Awe leads her sacred steps where'er they move, 
And mankind worship where they dare not love. 
But mix'd with softness was the virgin's pride, 
Her heart had feeling, which her eyes denied ; 
Her bright tears started at another's woes. 
While transient darkness on her soul arose. 

The chase she lov'd ; when morn with doubtful beam 
Came dimly wand'ring o'er the Bothnic stream. 
On Sevo's sounding sides she bent the bow, 
And rous'd his forests to his head of snow. 
Nor moved the maid abne, &c. 



FKEFACE. 43 

One of the chief improvements, in this edition, is the 
care taken in arranging the poems in the order of 
time ; so as to form a kind of regular history of the 
age to which they relate. The writer has now resigned 
them forever to their fate. That they have been well 
received by the public appears from an extensive sale ; 
that they shall continue to be well received, he may 
venture to prophesy, without the gift of that inspiration 
to which poets lay claim. Through the medium of 
version upon version, they retain, in foreign languages, 
their native character of simplicity and energy. Gen- 
uine poetry, like gold, loses little, when properly trans- 
fused ; but when a composition cannot bear the test of 
a literal version, it is a counterfeit which ought not to 
pass current. The operation must, however, be per 
formed with skilful hands. A translator who cannot 
equal his original, is incapable of expressing its beau- 
ties. 

London^ 
Aiiff. 15, 1773. 



DISSERTATION 



CONCERNING 



THE ^RA OF OSSIAN 



Inquiries into the antir|>i\ties of nations afford moie 
pleasure than any real a'lvantage to mankind. The 
ingenious may form systems of history on probabili'i ■ > 
and a few facts ; but, at a yrcat distance of time, ihtir 
accounts must be vague ai'd uncertain. The infancy 
of states and kingdoms is as destitute of great events^ 
as of the means of transmitting them to posterity. 
The arts of polished life, by which alone facts can be 
preserved with certainty, are the production of a well- 
formed community. It is then historians begin tu 
write, and public transactions to be worthy remem 
brance. The actions of former times are left in ob- 
scurity, or magnified by uncertain traditions. lienor 
it is that we find so much of the marvellous in the ori 
gin of every nation ; posterity being always ready te 
believe any thing, however fabulous, that reflects honoi 
on their ancestors. 

The Greeks and Romans were remarkable for this 
weakness. They swallowed the most absurd fables 
concerning the high antiquities of their respective na- 
tions. Good historians, however, rose very early 



DISSERTATION, ETC. 45 

amongst them, and transmitted, with lustre, their great 
actions to posterity. It is to them that they owe that 
unrivalled fame they now enjoy ; while the great ac- 
tions of other nations are involved in fables, or lost in 
obscurity. The Celtic nations afford a striking instance 
of this kind. They, though once the masters of Eu- 
rope, from the mouth of the river Oby, in Russia, to 
Cape Finisterre, the western point of Gallicia, in Spain, 
are very little mentioned in history. They trusted 
their fame to tradition and the songs of their bards, 
which, by the vicissitude of human atTairs, are long 
since lost. Their ancient language is the only monu- 
ment that rem.ains of them ; and the traces of it being 
found in places so widely distant from each other, 
serves only to show the extent of their ancient power, 
but throws very little light on their history. 

Of all the Celtic nations, that which possessed old 
Gaul is the most renowned : not perhaps on account of 
worth superior to the rest, but for their wars with a 
people who had historians to transmit the fame of their 
enemies, as well as their own, to posterity. Britain 
was first peopled by them, according to the testimony 
of the best authors ; its situation in respect to Gaul 
makes the opinion probable ; but what puts it'beyond 
all dispute, is, that the same customs and language 
prevailed among the inhabitants of both in the days of 
Julius Csesar. 

The colony from Gaul possessed themselves, at first, 
of that part of Britain which was next to their own 
countiy ; and spreading northward by degrees, as they 
increased in numbers, peopled the whole island. Some 
adventurers passing over from those parts of Britain 
that are within sight of Ireland, were the founders of 
the Irish nation : which is a more probable story than 
the idle fables of Milesian and Gallician colonies. 
Diodorus Siculus mentions it as a thing well known in 



46 DISSERTATION ON 

his time, that the inhabitants of Ireland were originally 
Britons ; and his testimony is unquestionable, when 
we consider that, for many ages, the language and cus- 
toms of both nations were the same. 

Tacitus was of opinion that the ancient Caledonians 
were of German extract ; but even the ancient Ger- 
mans themselves were Gauls. The present Germans, 
properly so called, were not the same with the ancient 
Celtse. The manners and customs of the two nation* 
were similar ; but their language different. The Ger 
mans are the genuine descendants of the rvncient Scan 
dinavians, who crossed, at an early period, the Baltic. 
The Celtge, anciently, sent many colonies into Ger- 
many, all of whom retained their own laws, language, 
and customs, till they were dissipated, in the Roman 
empire ; and it is of them, if any colonies came from 
Germany into Scotland, that the ancient Caledonians 
were descended. 

But whether the ancient Caledonians were a colony 
of the Celtic Germans, or the same with the Gauls that 
first possessed themselves of Britain, is a matter of no 
moment at this distance of time. Whatever their ori- 
gin was, we llnd them very numerous in the time of 
Julius Agricola, which is a presumption that they were 
long before settled in the country. The form of their 
government was a mixture of aristocracy and mon- 
archy, as it was in all the countries where the Druids 
bore the chief sway. This order of men seems to 
have been formed on the same principles with the Dac- 
tyli, Idee, and Curetes of the ancients. Their pretended 
intercourse with heaven, their magic awd divination, 
were the same. The knowledge of the Druids in natu- 
ral causes, and the properties of certain things, the 
fruits of the experiments of ages, gained them a mighty 
reputation among the people. The esteem of the 
populace soon inci eased into a veneration for the or- 



THE ^RA OF OSSIAN. 47 

der ; which these cunning and ambitious priests took 
care to improve, to such a degree, tliat they, in a man- 
ner, engrossed the management of civil, as well as re- 
hgious matters. It is generally allowed, that they did 
not abuse this extraordinary power ; the preserving the 
character of sanctity was so essential to their influ- 
ence, that they never broke out into violence or 
oppression. The chiefs were allowed to execute the 
laws, but the legislative power was entirely in the 
hands of the Druids. It was by their authority that 
the tribes were united, in times of the greatest danger, 
under one head. This temporary king, or Vergobre- 
tus, was chosen by them, and generally laid down his 
office at the end of the war. These priests enjoyed 
long this extraordinary privilege among the Celtic na- 
tions who lay beyond the pale of the Roman empire. 
It was in the beginning of the second century that their 
power among the Caledonians began to decline. The 
traditions concerning Trathal and Cormac, ancestors 
to Fingal, are full of the particulars of the fall of the 
Druids : a singular fate it must be owned, of priests 
wlio had once established their superstition. 

The continual wars of the Caledonicms against the 
Romans, hindered the bettor sort from initiating them- 
selves, as the custom formerly was, into the order of 
the Druids. The precepts of their religion were con- 
fined to a few, and were not much attended to by a 
people inured to war. The Vergobretus, or chief 
magistrate, was chosen without the concurrence of the 
Hierarchy, or continued in his office against their will. 
Continual power strengthened his interest among the 
tribes, and enabled him to send down, as hereditary to 
nis posterity, the office he had only received himself 
by election. 

On occasion of a new war against the " king of th3 
world," as tradition emphatically calls the Roman em- 



46 I)I.S:SKRTATI()N ON 

peror, the Druids, to vindicate the honor of the order, 
began to resume their ancient privilege of choosing the 
Vergobretus. Garmal, the son of Tarno, being de- 
puted by them, came to the grandfather of the cele- 
brated Fingal, who was then Vergobretus, and com- 
manded him, in the name of the whole order, to lay 
down his office. Upon his refusal, a civil war com- 
menced, which soon ended in almost the total extinction 
of the religious order of the Druids. A few that re- 
mained, retired to the dark recesses of their groves, 
and the caves they had formerly used for their medita- 
tions. It is then we find them in the circle of stones, 
and unheeded by the world. A total disregard for the 
order, and utter abhorrence of the Druidical rites en- 
sued. Under this cloud of public hate, all that had any 
knowledge of the religion of the Druids became ex- 
tinct, and the nation fell into the last degree of igno- 
rance of their rites and ceremonies. 

It is no matter of wonder, tlicn, that Fingal and his 
son Ossian disliked the Druids, who were the declared 
enemies to their succession in the supreme magistracy. 
It is a singular case, it must be allowed, that there are 
no traces of religion in the poems ascribed to Ossian, 
as the poetical compositions of other nations are so 
closely connected with their mythology. But gods are 
not necessary, when the poet has genius. It is hard to 
account for it to those who are not made acquainted 
with the manner of the old Scottish bards. That race 
of men carried their notions of martial honor to an ex- 
travagant pitch. Any aid given their heroes in battle, 
was thought to derogate from their fame ; and the 
bards immediatel}'^ transferred the glory of the action 
to him who had given that aid. 

Had the poet brought down gods, as often as Homei 
has done, to assist his heroes, his work had not con- 
sisted of eulogiums on men, but of hymns to superioi 



THE JiRA OF OSSIAN. 49 

beings. Those who write in the Gaelic language sel- 
dom mention religion in their profane poetry* and 
wljien they professedly write of religion, they never 
mix, with their compositions, the actions of their he- 
roes. This custom alone, even though the religion of 
the Druids had not been been previously extinguished, 
may, in some measure, excuse the author's silence con- 
3erning the religion of ancient times. 

To allege that a nation is void of all religion, betrays 
ignorance of the history of mankind. The traditions 
of their fathers, and their own observations on the 
works of nature, together with that superstition which 
is inherent in the human frame, have, in all ages, 
raised in the minds of men some idea of a superior 
being. Hence it is, that in the darkest times, and 
amongst the most barbarous nation.s, the very populace 
themselves had some faint notion, at least, of a divinity. 
The Indians, who worship no God, believe that he ex- 
ists. It would be doing injustice to the author of these 
poems, to think that he had not opened his conceptions 
to that primitive and greatest of all truths. But let his 
religion be what it will, it is certain that he has not al- 
luded to Christianity or any of its rites, in his poems ; 
which ought to fix his opinions, at least, to an era prior 
to that religion. Conjectures, on this subject, must 
supply the place of proof. The persecution begun by 
Dioclesian, in the year 303, is the most probable time 
in which the first dawning of Christianity in the north 
of Britain can be fixed. The humane and mild char- 
acter of Constantius Chlorus, who commanded then in 
Britain, induced the persecuted Christians to take refuge 
under him. Some of them, through a zeal to propa- 
gate their tenets, or through fear, went beyond the pale 
of the Roman empire, and settled among the Caledo- 
nians ; who were ready to hearken to their doctrines, 
if the religion of the Druids was exploded long before. 

5 



50 DISSERTATION ON 

These missionaries, either through choice, or to give 
more weight to the doctrine they advanced, took pos- 
session of the cells and groves of the Druids ; and it 
was from this retired life they had the name of Cul- 
dees, which, in the language of the country, signified 
"the sequestered persons." It was with one of the 
Culdees that Ossian, in his extreme old age, is said to 
have disputed concerning the Christian religion. This 
dispute they say, is extant, and is couched in verse, ac- 
cording to the custom of the times. The 'extreme 
ignorance on the part of Ossian of the Christian t(;nets, 
shows that that religion had only lately been introduced, 
as it is not easy to conceive how one of the first ranl^ 
could be totally unacquainted with a religion that had 
been known for any time in the country. The dispute 
bears the genuine marks of antiquity. The obsolete 
phrases and expressions, peculiar to the time, prove it 
to be no forgery. If Ossian, then, lived at the intro- 
duction of Christianity, as by all appearance he did, 
his epoch will be the latter end of the third, and begin- 
ning of the fourth century. Tradition here steps in 
with a kind of proof. 

The exploits of Fingal against Caracul, the son of 
the " king of the world," are among the first brave 
actions of his youth. A complete poem, which relates 
to this subject, is printed in this collection. 

In the year 210, the Emperor Severus, after return- 
ing from his expedition against the Caledonians at 
York, fell into the tedious illness of which he after- 
ward died. The Caledonians and Maiatse, resuming 
courage from his indisposition, took arms in order to 
recover the possessions they had lost. The enraged 
emperor commanded his army to march into their 
country, and to destroy it with fire and sword. His 
orders were but ill executed ; for his son Caracalla was 
at the head of the army, and his thoughts were entirely 



THE JERA OF OSSIAN. 51 

taken up with the hopes of his father's death, and with 
schemes to supplant his brother Geta. He scarcely 
had entered into the enemy's country, when news was 
brought him that Severus was dead. A sudden peace 
is patched up with the Caledonians, and, as it appears 
from Dion Cassius, the country they had lost to Severus 
was restored to them. 

The Caracul of Fingal is no other than Caracalla, 
who as the son of Severus, the emperor of Rome, 
whose dominions were extended almost over the known 
world, was not without reason called the " son of the 
king of the world." The space of time between 211, 
the year Severus died, and the beginning of the fourth 
century is not so great, but Ossian, the son of Fingal, 
might have seen the Christians whom the persecution 
vmder Dioclesian had driven beyond the pale of the 
Roman empire. 

In one of the many lamentations of the death of Os- 
car, a battle which he fought against Caros, king of 
ships, on the banks of the winding Carun, is mentioned 
among his great actions. It is more than probable, 
that the Caros mentioned here, is the same with the 
noted usurper Carausius, who assumed the purple in 
the year 287, and seizing on Britain, defeated the Em- 
peror Maximinian Herculius in several naval engage- 
ments, which gives propriety to his being called the 
''king of ships." "The winding Carun," is that 
small river retaining still the name of Carron, and runs 
in the neighborhood of Agricola's wall, which Carau- 
sius repaired, to obstruct the incursions of the Caledo- 
nians. Several other passages in traditions allude to 
the wars of the Romans ; but the two just mentioned 
clearly fix the epocha of Fingal to the third century ; 
and this account agrees exactly with the Irish histories, 
which place the death of Fingal, the son of Comhal, in 



52 DISSERTATION ON 

the year 283, and that of Oscar and their own ceie- 
brated Cairbre, in the year 296. 

Some people may imagine, tliat the allusions to the 
Roman history might have been derived by tradition, 
from learned men, more than from ancient poems. 
This must then have happened at least three hundred 
years ago, as these allusions are mentioned often in the 
compositions of those times. 

Every one knows what a cloud of ignorance and 
barbarism overspread the north of Europe three hun- 
dred years ago. The minds of men, addicted to su- 
perstition, contracted a narrowness that destroyed ge- 
nius. Accordingly we find the compositions of those 
times trivial and puerile to the last degree. But, let 
it be allowed, that, amidst all the untoward circum- 
stances of the age, a genius might arise ; it is not easy 
to determine what could induce him to allude to the 
Roman times. Wc find no fact to fjxvor any designs 
which could be entertained by any man who lived in 
the fifteenth century. 

The strongest objection to the antiquity of the poems 
now given to the public under the name of Ossian, is 
the improbability of their being handed down by tradi- 
tion through so many centuries. Ages of barbarism, 
some will say, could not produce poems abounding with 
the disinterested and generous sentiments so conspicu- 
ous in the compositions of Ossian ; and could these 
ages produce them, it is impossible but they must be 
lost, or altogether corrupted, in a long succession of 
barbarous generations. 

Those objections naturally suggest themselves to 
men unacquainted with the ancient state of the north- 
ern parts of Britain. The bards, who were an inferior 
order of the Druids, did not share tlteir bad fortune. 
They were spared by the victorious king, as it was 
Hirough their means only he could hope for immortality 



THE ^RA OF OSSIAN. 53 

to his fame. They attended him in the camp, atid 
contributed to establish his power by their songs. His 
great actions were magnified, and the populace, who 
liad no ability to examine into his character narrowly, 
were dazzled with his fame in the rhymes of the bards. 
In the mean time, men assumed sentiments that are 
rarely to be met with in an age of barbarism. The 
bards, who were originally the disciples of the Druids, 
had their minds opened, and their ideas enlarged, by 
being initiated into the learning of that celebrated order. 
They could form a perfect hero in their own minds, 
and ascribe that character to their prince. The infe- 
rior chiefs made this ideal character the model of their 
conduct ; and, by degrees, brought their minds to that 
generous spirit which breathes in all the poetry of the 
times. The prince, flattered by his bards, and rivalled 
by his own heroes, who imitated his character as de- 
scribed in the eulogies of his poets, endeavored to ex- 
cel his people in merit, as he was above them in station. 
This emulation continuing, formed at last the general 
character of the nation, happily compounded of what 
is noble in barbarity, and virtuous and generous in a 
polished people. 

When virtue in peace, and bravery in war, are the 
characteristics of a nation, their actions become inter- 
esting, and Ihcir fame worthy of immortality. A gen- 
erous spirit is warmed with noble actions, and becomes 
ambitious of perpetuating them. This is the true 
source of that divine inspiration, to which the poets of 
all ages pretended. When they found their themes 
inadequate to the warmth of their imaginations, they 
varnished them over with fables supplied with their own 
fancy, or furnished by absurd traditions. These fables, 
however ridiculous, had their abettors ; posterity either 
implicitly believed them, or through a vanity natural to 
mankind, pretended that they did. They loved to 



54 dist.^rtation on 

place the foundi & of ^heir families in the days of 
fable, when poeti'}t, without the fear of contradiction, 
could give what character she pleased of her heroes. 
It is to this vanity that we owe th-e preservation of what 
remain of the more ancient poems. Their poetical 
merit made their heroes famous in a country where 
heroism was much esteemed and admired. The pos- 
terity of these heroes, or those who pretended to be 
descended from them, heard with pleasure the eulo- 
giums of their ancestors ; bards were employed to re- 
peat the poems, and to record the connection of their 
patrons with chiefs so renowned. Every chief, in pro- 
cess of time, had a bard in his family, and the office 
became at last hereditary. By the succession of these 
bards, the poems concerning the ancestors of the family 
were handed down from generation to generation ; 
they were repeated to the whole clan on solemn occa- 
sions, and always alluded to in the new compositions 
of the bards. This custom came down to near our 
own times ; and after the bards were discontinued, a 
great number in a clan retained by memory, or com- 
mitted to writing, their compositions, and founded the 
antiquity of their families on the authority of their 
poems. 

The use of letters was not known in the north of 
Europe till long after the institution of the bards : the 
records of the families of their patrons, their own, and 
more ancient poems, were handed down by tradition. 
Their poetical compositions were admirably contrived 
for that purpose. They were adapted to music ; and 
the most perfect harmony was observed. Each verse 
was so connected with those which preceded or followed 
It, that if one line had been remembered in a stanza, it 
was almost impossible to forget the rest. The cadences 
followed so natural a gradation, and the words were so 
adapted to the common turn of the voice, after it is 



TIIK JERA OF OSSIAN. 55 

raised to a certain key, that it was almost impossible, 
from a similarity of sound, to substitute one word for 
another. This excellence is peculiar to the Celtic 
tongue, and is perhaps to be met with in no other lan- 
guage. Nor does this c*hoice of words clog the sense, 
or weaken the expression. The numerous flexions of 
consonants, and variation in declension, make the lan- 
guage very copious. 

The descendants of the Celtas, who inhabited Britain 
and its isles, were not singular in this method of pre- 
serving the most precious monuments of their nation. 
The ancient laws of the Greeks were couched in verse, 
and handed down by tradition. The Spartans, through 
a long habit, became so fond of this custom, that they 
would never allow their laws to be committed to wri- 
ting. The actions of great men, and eulogiums of 
kings and heroes, were preserved in the same manner. 
All the historical monuments of the old Germans were 
comprehended in their ancient songs; which were 
either hymns to their gods, or elegies in praise of their 
heroes, and were intended to perpetuate the great 
events in their nation, which were carefully interwoven 
with them. This species of composition was not com- 
mitted to writing, but delivered by oral tradition. The 
care they took to have the poems taught to their chil- 
dren, the uninterrupted custom of repeating them upon 
certain occasions, and the happy measure of the verse, 
served to preserve them for a long time uncorrupted. 
This oral chronicle of the Germans was not forgot in 
the eighth century; and it probably would have re- 
mained to this day, had not learning, which thinks 
every thing that is not committed to writing, fabulous, 
been introduced. It was from poetical traditions that 
Garcilasso composed his account of the Incas of Peru* 
The Peruvians liad lost all other monuments of their 
history, and it was from ancient poems, which his n;o= 



56 DISSERTATION, ETC. 

ther, a princess of the blood of the Incas, taught him in 
his youth, that he collected the materials of his history. 
If other nations, then, that had often been overrun by 
enemies, and hath sent abroad and received colonies, 
could for many ages preserve, by oral tradition, their 
laws and histories uncorrupted, it is much more proba- 
ble that the ancient Scots, a people so free of intermix- 
ture with foreigners, and so strongly attached to the 
memory of their ancestors, had the works of their 
bards handed down with great purity. 

What is advanced in this short dissertation, it must 
be confessed, is mere conjecture. Beyond the reach 
of records is settled a gloom which no ingenuity can 
penetrate. The manners described in these poems 
suit the ancient Celtic times, and no other period that 
is known in history. We must, therefore, place the 
heroes far back in antiquity ; and it matters little, who 
were their contemporaries in other parts of the world. 
If we have placed Fingal in his proper period, we do 
honor to the manners of barbarous times. He exercised 
every manly virtue in Caledonia, while Heliogabalus 
disgraced human nature at Rome. 



DISSERTATION 

CONCERNING THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 



The history of those nations who originally pos- 
sessed the north of Europe, is less known than their 
manners. Destitute of the use of letters, they them- 
selves had not the means of transmitting their great 
actions to remote posterity. Foreign w^riters saw them 
only at a distance, and described them as they found 
them. The vanity of the Romans induced them to 
consider the nations beyond the pale of their empire as 
barbarians ; and, consequently, their history unworthy 
of being investigated. Their manners and singular 
character were matters of curiosity, as they committed 
them to record. Some men otherwise of great merit, 
among ourselves, give into confined ideas on this sub- 
ject. Having early imbibed their idea of exalted man- 
ners from the Greek and Roman writers, they scarcely 
ever afterward have the fortitude to allow any dignity 
of character to any nation destitute of the use of let- 
ters. 

Without derogating from the fame of Greece and 
Rome, we may consider antiquity beyond the pale of 
their empire worthy of some attention. The nobler 



68 DISSKRTATION ON 

passions of the mind nevei shoot forth mor^ free and 
unrestrained than in the times we call burbarous. 
That irregular manner of life, and those manly pursuits, 
from which barbarity takes it name, are highly favor- 
able to a strength of mind unknown in polished times. 
In advanced society, the characters of men are more 
uniform and disguised. The human passions lie in 
some degree concealed behind forms and artificial man- 
ners ; and the powers of the soul, without an opportu- 
nity of exerting them, lose their vigor. The times of 
regular government, and polished manners, are there- 
fore to be wished for by the feeble and weak in mind. 
An unsettled state, and those convulsions which attend 
it, is the proper field for an exalted character, and the 
exertion of great parts. Merit there rises always su- 
perior ; no fortuitous event can raise the timid and 
mean into power. To those who look upon antiquity 
in this light, it is an agreeable prospect ; and they 
alone can have real pleasuie in tracing nations to their 
source. The establishment of the Celtic states, in the 
north of Europe, is beyond the reach of written annals. 
The traditions and songs to which they trusted their 
history, were lost, or altogether corrupted, in their 
revolutions and migrations, which were so frequent and 
universal, that no kingdom in Europe is now possessed 
by its original inhabitants. Societies were formed, 
and kingdoms erected, from a mixture of nations, who, 
in process of time, lost all knowledge of their own ori- 
gin. If tradition could be depended upon, it is only 
among a people, from all time, free from intermixture 
with foreigners. We are to look for these among the 
mountains and inaccessible parts of a country : places, 
on account of their barrenness, uninviting to an enemy, 
or whose natural strength enabled the natives to repel 
invasions. Such are the inhabitants of the mountains 
of Scotland. We, accordingly find that they differ 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 59 

materially from those who possess the low and more 
fertile parts of the kingdom. Their language is pure 
and original, and their manners are those of an ancient 
and unmixed race of men. Conscious of their own 
antiquity, they long despised others, as a new and mix- 
ed people. As they lived in a country only fit for pas- 
ture, they were free from that toil and business which 
engross the attention of a commercial people. Their 
amusement consisted in hearing or repeating their 
songs and traditions, and these entirely turned on the 
antiquity of their nation, and the exploits of their fore- 
fathers. It is no wonder, therefore, that there are 
more remains among them, than among any other 
people in Europe. Traditions, however, concerning 
remote periods are only to be regarded, in so far as 
they coincide with contemporary writers of undoubted 
credit and veracity. 

No writers began their accounts for a more early 
period than the historians of the Scots nation. With- 
out records, or even tradition itself, they gave a long 
list of ancient lyings, and a detail of their transactions, 
with a scrupulous exactness. One might naturally 
suppose, that when they had no authentic annals, they 
should, at least, have recourse to the traditions of their 
country, and have reduced them into a regular system 
of history. Of both they seem to have been equally 
destitute. Born in the low country, and strangers to 
the ancient language of their nation, they contented 
themselves with copying from one another, and retail- 
ing the same fictions in a new color and dress. 

John Fordun was the first who collected those frag- 
ments of the Scots history which had escaped the bru- 
tal policy of Edward I., and reduced them into order. 
His accounts, in so far as they concerned recent trans- 
actions, deserved credit: beyond a certain period, 
they were fabulous and unsatisfactory. Some time be- 



60 PISSERTATION ON 

fore Fordiin wrote, the king of England, in a letter to 
the pope, had run up the antiquity of his nation to a 
very remote sera. Fordun, possessed of all the national 
prejudice of the age, was unwilling that his country 
should yield, in point of antiquity, to a people then its 
rivals and enemies. Destitute of annals in Scotland, 
he had recourse to Ireland, which, according to the 
vulgar error of the times, was reckoned the first habi- 
tation of the Scots. He found there, that the Irish 
bards had carried their pretensions to antiquity as high, 
if not beyond any nation in Europe. It was from 
them he took those improbable fictions which form the 
first part of his history. 

The writers that succeeded Fordun implicitly follow- 
ed his system, though they sometimes varied from him 
in their relations of particular transactions and the or- 
der of succession of their kings. As they had no new 
lights, and were equally with him unacquainted with 
the traditions of their country, their histories contain 
little information concerning the origin of the Scots. 
Even Buchanan himself, except the elegance and vigor 
of his style, has very little to recommend him. Blinded 
with political prejudices, he seemed more anxious to 
turn the fictions of his predecessors to his own purposes, 
than to detect their misrepresentations, or investigate 
truth amidst the darkness which they had thrown round 
it. It therefore appears, that little can be collected 
from their own historians concerning the first migra- 
tions of the Scots into Britain. 

That this island was peopled from Gaul admits of no 
doubt. Whether colonies came afterward from the 
north of Europe, is a matter of mere speculation. 
When South Britain yielded to the power of the Ro- 
mans, the unconquered nations to the north of the 
province were distinguished by the name of Caledo- 
oians From their very name, it appears that they 



TIIF. POEMS OF OSSIAN. 01 

were of those Gauls who possessed themselves origi- 
nally of Britain. It is compounded of tv/o Celtic 
words, Cad signifying Celts, or Gauls, and l)un or 
Don, a hill ; so that Caeldon, or Caledonians, is as 
much as to say, the " Celts of the hill country."' The 
Highlanders, to this day, call themselves Cael, and 
their language Gaelic, or Galic, and their counti^ 
Caeldock, which the Romans softened into Caledonia. 
This, oi itself, is sufficient to demonstrate that they are 
the genuine descendants of the ancient Caledonians, 
and not a pretended colony of Scots, who settled first 
in the north, in the third or fourth century. 

From the double meaning of the word Cael, which 
signifies " strangers," as well as Gauls, or Cells, some 
have imagined, that the ancestors of the Caledonians 
were of a dilTerent race from the rest of the Britons, 
and that they received their name upon that account. 
This opinion, say they, is supported by Tacitus, who, 
from several circumstances, concludes that the Cale- 
donians v/ere of German extraction. A discussion of 
a point so intricate, at this distance of lime, could 
neither be satisfactory nor important. 

Towards the latter end of the third, and beginning 
of the fourth century, we find the Scots in the north. 
Porphirius makes the first mention of them about that 
time. As the Scots vrere not heard of before that 
period, most writers supposed them to have been a 
colony, newly come to Britain, and that the Picts were 
the only genuine descendants of the ancient Caledoni 
ans. This mistake is easily removed. The Caledoni- 
ans, in process of time, became naturally divided into 
two distinct nations, as possessing parts of the countiy 
entirely difterent in their nature and soil. The we:;t- 
ern coast of Scotland is hilly and barren ; towards f(t<e 
east, the country is plain, and fit for tillage. The in- 
habitants of the mountains, a roving and uncontrolled 
6 



62 DISSEr.TATION ON 

race of men, lived by feeding of cattle, and what they 
killed in hunting. Their employment did not fix them 
to one place. They removed Irom one heath to ano- 
ther, as suited best with their convenience or inclina- 
tion. They were not, therefore, improperly called, ly 
their neighbors, Scuite. or '-the wandejjjng nation;' 
which is evidently the origin of the lloman name of 
Scoti. 

On the other hand, the Caledonians, who possessed 
the east coast of Scotland, as this division of the 
country was plain and fertile, applied themselves to 
agriculture, and raising of corn. It was from this 
that the Galic name of the Picts proceeded ; for they 
are called in that language, Cruithnich, i. e. " the wheat 
or corn eaters." As the Picts lived in a country so 
different in its nature from that possessed by the Scots 
so their national character suffered a material change. 
Unobstructed by mountains or lakes, their communica- 
tion with one another was free and frequent. Society, 
therefore, became sooner established among them than 
among the Scots, and, consequently, they were much 
sooner governed by civil magistrates and laws. This, 
at last, produced so great a difference in the manners 
of the two nations, that they began to forget their com- 
mon origin, and almost continual quarrels and animosi- 
ties subsisted between them. These animosities, after 
some ages, ended in the subversion of the Pictish king, 
dom, but not in the total extirpation of the nation ac- 
cording to most of the Scots writers, who seem to think 
it more for the honor of their countrymen to ftmiihilate 
than reduce a rival people under their obedience. It is 
certain, however, that the very name of the Picts was lost, 
and that those that remained were so completely in- 
corporated with their conquerors, that they soon lost 
all memory of their own origin. 

The end of the Pictish government is placed so near 



THE POEMS OF i).SSrAN. 63 

that period to which authentic annals reach, that it is 
matter of wonder that we have no monuments of their 
language or history remaining. This favors the sys- 
tem I have laid down. Had they originally been of a 
different race from the Scots, their language of course 
would be different. The contrary is the case. The 
names of places in the Pictish dominions, and the very 
names of their kings, which are handed down to us, 
are of Galic original, which is a convincing proof that 
the two nations were, of old, one and the same, and 
only divided into two governments by the effect which 
their situation had upon the genius of the people. 

The name of Picts is said to have been given by the 
Romans to the Caledonians who possessed the east 
coast of Scotland from their painting their bodies. 
The story is silly, and the argument absurd. But let 
us revere antiquity in her very follies. This circum- 
stance made some imagine, that the Picts were of Brit- 
ish extract, and a different race of men from the Scots. 
That more of the Britons, who fled northward from the 
tyranny of the Romans, settled in the low country of 
Scotland, than among the Scots of the mountains, may 
bo easily imagined, from the very nature of the coun- 
try. It was they who introduced painting among the 
Picts. From this circum.stance, affirm some antiqua- 
ries, proceeded the name of the latter, to distinguish 
them from the Scots, who never had that art among 
tliem, and from the Britons, who discontinued it after 
the Roman conquest. 

The Caledonians, most certainly, acquired a consider- 
able knowledge in navigation by their living on a 
coast intersected with many arms of the sea, and in 
islands, divided one from another by wide and danger- 
ous firths. It is, therefore, highly probable, that they 
very early found their way to the north of Ireland, 
which is within sight of their own country. That Ire- 



04 DISSERTATION ON 

land was first peopled from Britain, is, at length, a mat. 
ter that admits of no doubt. The vicinity of the two 
islands ; the exact correspondence of the ancient in- 
habitants of both, in point of manners and language, 
are sufficient proofs, even if we had not the testimonies 
of authors of undoubted veracity to confirm it. The 
abettors of the most romantic systems of Irish antiqui- 
ties allow it ; but they place the colony from Britain in 
an improbable and remote aera. I shall easily admit 
that the colony of the Firbolg, confessedly the Belgae 
ut Britain, settled in the south of Ireland, before the 
Gael, or Caledonians discovered the north ; but it is 
not at all likely that the migration of the Firbolg to 
Ireland happened many centuries before the Christian 
aera. 

The poem of Temora throws considerable light on 
this subject. The accounts given in it agree so well with 
what the ancients have delivered concerning the first 
population and inhabitants of Ireland, that every unbi- 
ased person will confess them more probable than the 
legends handed down, by tradition, in that country. It 
appears that, in tb.e days of Tratlial, grandfather to Fin- 
gal, Ireland was possessed by two nations ; the Firbolg 
or Belgoe of Britain, who inhabited the south, and the 
Gael, who passed over from Caledonia and the Hebri- 
des to Ulster. The two nations, as is usual among an 
unpolished and lately settled people, were divided into 
sinall dynasties, subject to petty kings or chiefs, inde- 
pendent of one another. In this situation, it is proba- 
ble, they continued long, without any material revolu- 
tion in the state of the island, until Crothar, lord of 
Atha, a country in Connaught, the most potent chief 
of the Firbolg, carried away Conlama, the daughter 
of Cathmin, a chief of the Cael, who possessed Ulster. 

Conlama had been betrothed, some time before, to 
Turloch, a chief of their own nation. Turloch re- 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 65 

sented the affront offered him by Crothar, made an ir. 
ruption into Connaught, and killed Cormul, the brother 
of Crothar, who came to oppose his progress. Crothar 
himself then took arms, and either killed or expelled 
Turloch. The war, upon this, became general between 
tlie two nations, and the Gael were reduced to the last 
extremity. In this situation, they applied for aid to 
Tratlial, king of Morven, who sent his brother Conar, 
already famous for his great exploits, to their relief. 
Conar, i^poa his arrival in Ulster, was chosen king by 
the unanimous consent of the Caledonian tribes who 
possessed that country. The war was renewed with 
vigor and success ; but the Firbolg appear to have 
been rather repelled than subdued. In succeeding 
reigns, we learn, from episodes in the same poem, that 
the chiefs of Atha made several efforts to become 
monarchs of Ireland, and to expel the race of Conar. 

To Conar succeeded his son Cormac, who appears 
to have reigned long. In his latter days he seems to 
have been driven to the last extremity by an insurrec- 
tion of the Firbolg, who supported the pretensions of 
the chiefs of Atha to the Irish throne. Fingal, who 
was then very young, came to the aid of Cormac, 
totally defeated Colculla, chief of Atha, and re-estab- 
lished Cormac in the sole possession of all Ireland. It 
was then he fell in love with, and took to wife, Ros» 
crana, the daughter of Cormac, who was the mother 
of Ossian. 

Cormac was succeeded in the Irish throne by his 
son Cairbre ; Cairbre by Artho, his son, who was the 
father of that Cormac, in whose minority the invasion 
of Swaran happened, which is the subject of the poem 
of Fingal. The family of Atha, v/ho had not relin- 
quished their pretensions to the Irisli throne, rebelled in 
the minority of Cormac, defeated liis adherents, and 
murdered him in the palace of Tej aora. Cairbar. lord 
6* 



66 DISSERTATION ON 

of Atha, upon this mounted the throne. His usurpa- 
tion soon ended with his hie ; for Fingal made an ex- 
pedition into Ireland, and restored, after various vicis- 
situdes of fortune, the family of Conar to the possession 
of the kingdom. This war is the subject of Temora ; 
the events, though certainly heightened and embellished 
by poetry, seem, notwithstanding, to have their founda- 
tion in true history. 

Temora contains not only the history of the .first mi- 
gration of the Caledonians into Ireland ; it. also pre- 
serves some important facts concerning the first settle- 
ment of the Firbolg, or Belgse of Britain, in that king- 
dom, under their leader Larthon, who was ancestor to 
Cairbar and Cathmor, who successively mounted the 
Irish throne, after the death of Cormac, the son of 
Artho. I forbear to transcribe the passage on account 
of its length. It is the song of Fonar, the bard; to- 
wards the latter end of the seventh book of Temora. 
As the generations from Larthon to Cathmor, to whom 
the episode is addressed, are not marked, as are those 
of the family of Conar, the first king of Ireland, we 
can form no judgment of the time of the settlement of 
the Firbolg. It is, however, probable it was some 
time before the Cael, or Caledonians, settled in Ulster. 
One important fact may be gathered from this history, 
that the Irish had no king before the latter end of the 
first century. Fingal lived, it is supposed, in the third 
century ; so Conar, the first monarch of the Irish, who 
was his grand-uncle, cannot be placed farther back than 
the close of the first. To establish this fact, is to 
lay, at once, aside the pretended antiquities of the 
Scots and Irish, and to get quit of the long list of kings 
which the latter give us for a millenium before. 

Of the affairs of Scotland, it is certain, nothing can 
be depended upon prior to the reign of Fergus, the son 
of Ere. who lived in the fifth century. The true his- 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 67 

tory of Ireland begins somewliat later than that period. 
Sir James Ware, who was indefatigable in his re- 
searches after the anti<][uities of his country, rejects, as 
mere fiction and idle romance, all that is related of the 
ancient Irish before the time of St. Patrick, and the 
reign of Leogaire. It is from this consideration that 
he begins his history at the i4itroduction of Christianity, 
remarking, that all that is delivered down concerning 
the times of paganism were tales of late invention, 
strangely mixed with anachronisms and inconsistencies. 
Such being the opinion of Ware, who had collected, 
with uncommon industiy and zeal, all the real and pre- 
tendedly ancient manuscripts concerning the history of 
his country, we may, on his authority, reject the im- 
probable and self-condemned tales of Keating and 
O'Flaherty. Credulous and puerile to the last degree, 
they have disgraced the antiquities they meant to 
establish. It is to be wished that some able Irish- 
man, v/ho understands the language and records of his 
country, may redeem, ere too late, the genuine anti- 
quities of Ireland from the hands of these idle fabulists. 

By comparing the history in these poems with the 
legends of the Scots and Irish writers, and by after- 
ward examining both by the test of the Roman authors, 
it is easy to discover which is the most probable. 
Probability is all that can be established on the author- 
ity of tradition, ever dubious and uncertain. But when 
it favors the hypothesis laid dov/n by contemporary 
writers of undoubted veracity, and, as it were, finishes 
the figure of which they only drew the outlines, it 
ought, in the judgment of sober reason, to be preferred 
to accounts framed in dark and distant periods, with 
little judgm.ent, and upon no authority. 

Concerning the period of more than a century which 
intervenes between Fingal and the reign of Fergus, the 
son of Ere or Arcath, tradition is dark r.nd contradic- 



68 DISSERTATION ON 

tory. Some trace up the family of Fergus to a son of 
Fingal of that name, who makes a considerable figure 
in Ossian's Poems. The three elder sons of Fingal, 
Ossian, Fillan, and Ryno, dying without iifoue, the suc- 
cession, of course, devolved upon Fergus, the fourth 
son, and his posterity. This Fergus, say some tradi- 
tions, was the father of Congal, whose son was Arcath, 
the father of Fergus, propei'ly called the first king of 
Scots, as it was in his time the Gael, who possessed the 
western coast of Scotland, bogan to b-e distinguished by 
foreigners by t!ie name of Scots. From thencefor- 
ward, the Scots and Picts, as distinct nations, became 
objects of attention to the historians of other countries. 
The internal state of the two Caledonian kingdoms has 
always continued, and ever must remain, in obscurity 
and fable. 

It is in this epoch we must fix the beginning of inn 
decay of that species of heroism which subsisted in V.w, 
days of Fingal. There are three stages in human nj- 
ciety. The first is the result of consanguinity, and 
tlie natural affection of the members of a family to one 
another. The second begins when property is estab- 
lished, and men enter into associations for mutual de- 
fence, against the invasions and injustice of neighbors. 
Mankind submit, in the third, to certain laws and sub- 
ordinations of government, to which they trust the 
safety of their persons and property. As the first is 
formed on nature, so, of course, it is the most disinter- 
a^ted and noble. Men, in the last, have leisure to cul- 
tivate the mind, and to restore it, with reflection, to a 
primeval dignity of sentiment. The middle state is 
the region of complete barbarism and ignorance. 
About the beginning of the fifth century, the Scots and 
Picts were advanced into the second stage, and conse- 
quently, into those circumscribed sentiments which 
always distinguish barbarity. The events which soon 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 69 

after happened did not at all contribute to enlarge their 
ideas, or mend their national character. 

About the year 426, the Romans, on account of do- 
mestic commotions, entirely forsook Britain, finding it 
impossible to defend so distant a frontier. The Picts 
and Scots, seizing this favorable opportunity, made in- 
cursions into the deserted province. The Britons, 
enervated by the slavery of several centuries, and 
those vices which are inseparable from an advanced 
state of civility, were not able to withstand the impetu- 
ous, though irregular, attacks of a barbarous enemy. 
In the utmost distress, they applied to their old masters, 
the Romans, and (after the unfortunate state of the 
empire could not spare aid) to the Saxons, a nation 
equally barbarous and brave with the enemies of whom 
they were so much afraid. Though the bravery of 
the Saxons repelled the Caledonian nations for a time, 
yet the latter found means to extend themselves con- 
siderably towards the south. It is in this period v/e 
must place the origin of the arts of civil life among 
the Scots. The seat of governmnnt was removed 
from the mountains to the plain and more fertile prov- 
inces of the south, to be near the common enemy in 
case of sudden incursions. Instead of roving through 
unfrequented wilds in search of subsistence by means 
of hunting, men applied to agriculture, and raising of 
corn. This manner of life was the first means of 
changing the national character. The next thing 
which contributed to it was their mixture with stran- 
gers. 

In the countries which the Scots had conquered from 
the Britons, it is probable that most of the ol 1 inhabit- 
ants remained. These incorporating with the con- 
querors, taught them agriculture and other arts which 
they themselves had received from the Romans. The 
Scots, however, in number as well as power, being the 



70 DISSERTATION ON 

most predominant, retained still their language, and as 
many of the customs of their ancestors as suited with 
the nature of the country they possessed. Even the 
union of the two Caledonian kingdoms did not much 
affect the national character. Being originally de- 
scended from the same stock, the manners of the Picts 
and Scots were as similar as the different natures of 
the countries they possessed permitted. 

What brought about a total change in the genius of 
the Scots nation was their wars and other transactions 
with the Saxons. Several counties in the south of 
Scotland were alternately possessed by the two nations. 
They were ceded, in the ninth age, to the Scots, and 
it is probable that most of tho Saxon inhabitants re- 
mained in possession of their lands. Durmg the 
several conquests and revolutions in England, many 
fled for refuge into Scotland, to avoid the oppression 
of foreigners, or the tyranny of domestic usurpers ; 
insomuch, that the Saxon race formed, perhaps, near 
one half of the Scottish kingdom. The Saxon man- 
ners and language daily gained ground on the tonguo 
and customs of the ancient Caledonians, till, at last, the 
latter were entirely relegated to the inhabitants of the 
mountains, who were still unmixed with strangers. 

It was after the accession of territory which the 
Scots received upon tne retreat of the Romans from 
Britain, that the inhabitants of the Highlands were 
divided into clans. The king, when he kept his court 
in the mountains, was considered by the whole nation 
as the chief of their blood. The small number, as 
well as the presence of their prince, prevented those 
divisions which, afterward, sprung forth into so many 
separate tribes. When the seat of goverment was re- 
moved to the south, those who remained in the High- 
lands were, of course, neglected. They naturally 
formed themselves into small societies independent of 



I'HE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 71 

one another. Each society had its own regulus, who 
either was, or, in the succession of a few generations, 
was regarded as chief of their blood. The nature of 
the country favored an institution of this sort. A few 
val.eys, divided from one another by extensive heaths 
and impassable mountains, form the face of the High- 
lands. In those valleys the chiefs fixed their residence. 
Round them, and almost within sight of their dwellings, 
were the habitations of their relations and dependants. 

The seats of the Highland chiefs were neither disa- 
greeable nor inconvenient. Surrounded with moun- 
tains and hanging woods, they were covered from the 
inclemency of the weather. Near them generally ran 
a pretty large river, which, discharging itself not far 
off into an arm of the sea or extensive lake, swarmed 
with variety of fish. The woods were stocked with 
wild- fowl ; and the heaths and mountains behind them 
were the natural seat of the red-deer and roe. If we 
make allowance for the backward state of agriculture, 
the valleys were not unfertile ; affording, if not all the 
conveniences, at least the necessaries of life. Here the 
chief lived, the supreme judge and lawgiver of his own 
people ; but his sway was neither severe nor unjust. 
As the populace regarded him as the chief of their 
blood, so he, in return, considered them as members of 
his family. His commands, therefore, though absolute 
and decisive, partook more of the authority of a father 
than of the rigor of a judge. Though the whole terri- 
tory of the tribe was considered as the property of the 
chief, yet his vassals made him no other consideration 
for their lands than services, neither burdensomic nor 
frequent. As he seldom went from home, he was at no 
expense. His table was supplied by his own herds 
and what his numerous attendants killed in hunting. 

In this rural kind of magnificence the Highland 
chiefs lived for many ages. At a distance from tlio 



72 Dfi.SKi.TATlo.N dA 

seat of govcnnricnt, and accurcd by the i!iaccessiblenes3 
of their country, they were free and independent. As 
they had little communication witli strangers, the cus- 
toms of their ancestors remained among them, and 
their language retained its original purity. Naturally 
fond of military fame, and remarkably attached to the 
memory of their ancestors, they delighted in traditions 
and songs concerning the exploits of their nation, and 
especially of their own particular families. A succes- 
sion of bards was retained in every clan to hand down 
the memorable actions of their forefathers. As Fin- 
gal and his chiefs were the most renowned names in 
tradition, the bards took care to place them in the 
genealogy of every great family. They became fa- 
mous among the people, and an object of fiction and 
poetry to the bard. 

The bards erected their immediate patrons into he- 
roes and celebrated them in their songs. As the circle 
of their knowledge was narrow, their ideas were con- 
fined in proportion. A few happy expressions, and 
the manners they represent, may please those who un- 
derstand the language ; their obscurity and inaccuracy 
would disgust in a translation. It was chiefly for this 
reason that I have rejected wholly the works of tlie 
bards in my publications. Ossian acted in a more ex- 
tensive sphere, and his ideas ought to be mtore noble 
and universal ; neither gives he, I presume, so many 
of their peculiarities, which are only understood in a 
certain period or country. The other bards have their 
beauties, but not in this species of composition. Their 
rhymes, only calculated to kindle a martial spirit 
among the vulgar, afibrd very little pleasure to genuine 
taste. This observation only regards their poems of 
the heroic kind ; in every inferior species of poetry 
they are more successful. They express the tender 
nnelancholy of desponding love with simplicity and na- 



THE FOEMS OF OSSIAN. 73 

ture. So well adapted are the sounds of the words to 
the sentiments, that, even without any knowlege of the 
language, they pierce and dissolve the heart. Success- 
ful love is expressed with peculiar tenderness and ele- 
gance. In all their compositions, except the heroic, 
which was solely calculated to animate the vulgar, they 
gave us the genuine language of the heart, without any 
of those affected ornaments of phraseology, which, 
though intended to beautify sentiments, divest them of 
their natural force. The ideas, it is confessed, are too 
local to be admired in another language ; to those who 
are acquainted with the manners they represent, and 
the scenes they describe, they must afford pleasure and 
satisfaction. 

It was the locality of their description and sentiment 
that, probably, has kept them in the obscurity of an al- 
most lost language. The ideas of an unpolished period 
are so contrary to the present advanced state of society, 
that more than a common mediocrity of taste is required 
to relish them as they deserve. Those who alone are 
capable of transferring ancient poetry into a modern 
language, might be better employed in giving originals 
of their own, were it not for that wretched envy and 
meanness which affects to despise contemporary genius. 
My first publication was merely accidental ; had I then 
met with less approbation my after pursuits would have 
been more profitable : at least, I might have continued 
to be stupid without being branded with dulness. 

These poems may furnish light to antiquaries, as 
well as some pleasure to the lovers of poetry. The 
first population of Ireland, its first kings, and several 
circumstances, which regard its connection of old with 
the south and north of Britain, are presented in several 
episodes. The subject and catastrophe of the poem 
are founded upon facts which regarded the first peopling 
of that country, and the contests between the two 
7 



74» DISSERTATION ON 

British nations, who originally inliabited that island. 
In a preceding part of this dissertation I have shown 
how superior the probability of this system is to the 
undigested fictions of the Irish bards, and the more re- 
cent and regular legends of both Irish and Scottish 
historians. I mean not to give oftence to the abettors 
of the high antiquities of the two nations, though I 
have all along expressed my doubts concerning the 
veracity and abilities of those who deliver down their 
ancient history. For my own part, I prefer the na- 
tional fame arising from a few certain facts, to the 
legendary and uncertain annals of ages of remote and 
obscure antiquity. No kingdom now established in 
Europe can pretend to equal antiquity with that of the 
Scots, inconsiderable as it may appear in other respects, 
even a.ccording to my system ; so that it is altogether 
needless to fix its origin a fictitious millenium before. 

Since the first publication of these poems, many in- 
smuations have been made, and doubts arisen, concern- 
ing their authenticity. Whether these suspicions are 
suggested by prejudice, or are only the effects of 
malice, I neither know nor care. Those who have 
doubted my veracity have paid a compliment to my 
genius ; and were even the allegation true, mv self- 
denial might have atoned for my fault. Without 
vanity I say it, I think I could write tolerable poetry ; 
and I assure my antagonists, that I should not translate 
what I could not imitate. 

As prejudice is the effect of ignorance, I am not 
surprised at its being general. An age that produces 
few marks of genius ought to be sparing of admiration. 
The truth is, the bulk of mankind have ever been led 
by reputation more than taste, in articles of literature. 
If all the Romans who admired Virgil understood his 
beauties, he would have scarce deserved to have come 
down to us through so many centuries. TTnless genius 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 75 

were in fashion, Homer himself might have written in 
vain. He that wishes to come with weight on the su- 
perficial, must skim the surface, in tlieir own shallow 
way. Were my aim to gain the many, I would write 
a madrigal sooner than an heroic poem. Laberius 
himself would be always sure of more followers than 
Sophocles. 

Some who doubt the authenticity of this work, with 
peculiar acuteness appropriate them to the Irish nation. 
Though it is not easy to conceive how these poems can 
belong to Ireland and to me at once, I shall examine 
the subject without farther animadversion on the blim- 
der. 

Of all the nations descended from the ancient Cel- 
tse, the Scots and Irish are the most similar in language, 
customs, and manners. This argues a more intimate 
connection between them than a remote descent from 
the great Celtic stock. It is evident, in short, that, at 
some period or other, they formed one society, were 
subject to the same government, and were, in all re- 
spects, one and the same people. How they became 
divided, which the colony, or which the mother-nation, 
I have in another work amply discussed. The first 
circumstance that induced me to disregard the vulgarly- 
received opinion of the Hibernian extraction of the 
Scottish nation was my observations on their ancient 
language. The dialect of the Celtic tongue, spoken 
in the north of Scotland, is much more pure, more 
agreeable to its mother-language, and more abounding 
with primitives, than that now spoken, or even that 
which has been written for some centuries back, 
amongst the most unmixed part of the Irish nation. 
A Scotchman, tolerably conversant in his own lan- 
guage, understands an Irish composition from that de- 
rivative analogy which it has to the Gaelic of North 
Britain. An Irishman, on the other hand, without the 



76 DISSERTATION ON 

aid of study, can never understand a composition in the 
Gaelic tongue. This affords a proof that the Scotch 
Gaelic is the most original, and, consequently, the lan- 
guage of a more ancient and unmixed people. The 
Irish, however backward they may be to allow any thing 
to the prejudice of their antiquity, seem inadvertently 
to acknowledge it, by the very appellation they give to 
the dialect they speak. They call their own language 
Gaelic Eirinarch, i. e. Caledonian Irish, when, on the 
contrary, they call the dialect of North Britain a 
CliaeUc, or the Caledonian tongue, emphatically. A 
( . . cumstance of this nature tends more to decide which 
is the most ancient nation than the united testimonies 
of a whole legion of ignorant bards and senachies, who, 
perhaps, never dreamed of bringing the Scots from 
Spain to Ireland, till some one of them, more learned 
than the rest, discovered that the Romans called the 
first Iberia, and the latter Hibernia. On such a slight 
foundation were probably built the romantic fictions 
concerning the Milesians of Ireland. 

From internal proofs it sufficiently appears that the 
poems published under the name of Ossian are not of 
Irish composition. The favorite chimera, that Ireland 
is the mother-country of the Scots, is totally subverted 
and ruined. The fictions concerning the antiquities of 
that country, which were formed for ngcs, and growing 
as they came down on the hands of successive sena- 
chies and fileas, are found, at last, to be the spurious 
brood of modern and ignorant ages. To those who 
know how tenacious the Irish are of their pretended 
Iberian descent, this alone is proof sufficient, that 
poems, so subversive of their system, could never be 
produced by an Hibernian bard. But when we look 
to the language, it is so different from the Irish dialect, 
that it would be as ridiculous to think that Milton's 
Paradise Lost could be wrote by a Scottish peasant, as 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. tt 

to suppose that the poems ascribed to Ossian were writ 
in Ireland. 

The pretensions of Ireland to Ossian proceed from 
another quarter. There are handed down in that 
country traditional poems concerning the Fiona, or the 
heroes of Fion Mac Comnal. This Fion, say the Irish 
annalists, was general of the militia of Ireland in the 
reign of Cormac, in the third century. Where Keat- 
ing and 0-Flaherty learned that Ireland had an embo- 
died militia so early, is not so easy for me to determine. 
Their information certainly did not come from the 
Irish poems concerning Fion. I have just now in my 
hands all that remain of those compositions ; but, un- 
luckily for the antiquities of Ireland, they appear to be 
the work of a very modern period. Every stanza, 
nay, almost every line, affords striking proofs that they 
cannot be three centuries old. Their allusions to the 
manners and customs of the fifteenth century are so 
many, that it is a matter of wonder to me how any one 
could dream of their antiquity. They are entirely 
writ in that romantic taste which prevailed two ages 
ago. Giants, enchanted castles, dwarfs, palfreys, 
witches, and magicians, form the whole circle of the 
poet's invention. The celebrated Fion could scarcely 
move from one hillock to another without encountering 
a giant, or being entangled in the circles of a magician. 
Witches, on broomsticks, were continually hovering 
round him like crows ; and he had freed enchanted 
virgins in every valley in Ireland. In short, Fion, 
great as he was, passed a disagreeable life. Not only 
had he to engage all the mischiefs in his own country, 
foreign armies invaded him, assisted by magicians and 
witches, and headed by kings as tall as the mainmast 
of a first-rate. It must be owned, however, that Fion 
was not inferior to them in height. 
7* 



76 DISSERTATiaN ON 

A chos air Cromleach, druim-ard, 
Chos eile air Crom-meal dubh, 
Thoea Fion le lamh mhoir 
An d'uisge o Lubhair na Iruth. 

With one foot on Cromleach his brow. 
The other on Srommal the dark, 
Fion took up with his large hand 
The water from Liibar of the streams. 

Cromleach and Crommal were two mountains in the 
neighborhood of one another, in Ulster, and the rivei 
of Lubar ran through the intermediate valley. The 
property of such a monster as this Fion I should never 
have disputed with any nation ; but the bard himself, 
in the poem from which the above quotation is taken, 
cedes him to Scotland : 

Fion o Albin, siol nan laoich ! 
Fion from Albion, race of heroes ! 

Were it allowable to contradict the authority of a bard, 
at this distance of time, I should have given as my 
opinion, that this enormous Fion was of the race of the 
Hibernian giants, of Ruanus, or some other celebrated 
name, rather than a native of Caledonia, whose inhab- 
itants, now at least, are not remarkable for their sta- 
ture. As for the poetry, I leave it to the reader. 

If Fion was so remarkable for his stature, his heroes 
had also other extraordinary properties. " In weight 
all the sons of strangers yielded to the celebrated T )n- 
iosal ; and for hardness of skull, and, perhaps, for 
thickness too, the valiant Oscar stood ' unrivalled ana 
alone.' " Ossian himself had many singular and less 
delicate qualifications than playing on the harp ; and 
the brave CuthuUin was of so diminutive a size, as to 
be taken for a child of two years of age by the gigantic 
Swaran. To illustrate this subject, I shall here lay 
before the reader the history of some of the Irish poems 
concerning Fion Mac Comnal. A translation of tnese 
pieces, if well executed, might afford satisfaction, in an 



THE i'OE.MS OF OSSlAi^. 79 

uncommon way, to the public. But this ought to be 
the work of a native of Ireland, To draw forth from 
obscurity the poems of my own country has wasted all 
the time I had allotted for the Muses ; besides, I am 
too diffident of my own abilities to undertake such a 
work. A gentleman in Dublin accused me to the pub- 
lic of committing blunders and absurdities in transla- 
ting the language of my own country, and that before 
any translation of mine appeared. How the gentle- 
man came to see my blunders before I committed them, 
is not easy to determine ; if he did not conclude that, as a 
Scotsman, and, of course, descended of the Milesian race, 
I might have committed some of those oversights, which, 
perhaps very unjustly, are said to be peculiar to them. 
From the whole tenor of the Irish poems concerning 
the Fiona, it appears that Fion Mac Comnal flourished 
in the reign of Cormac, which is placed, by the univer- 
sal consent of the senachies, in the third century. 
They even fix the death of Fingal in the year 268, yet 
his son Ossian is made contemporary with St. Patrick, 
who preached the gospel in Ireland about the middle 
of the fifth age. Ossian, though ot that time he must 
have been two hundred and fifty years of age, had a 
daughter young enough to become wife to the saint. 
On account of this family connection, '' Patrick of the 
Psalms,'' for so the apostle of Ireland is emphatically 
called in the poems, took great delight in the compiaiy 
of Ossian, and in hearing the great actions of his 
family. The saint sometimes threw ofTthe aust^ity 
of his profession, drank freely, and had his soul 
properly warmed with wine, to receive with becoming 
enthusiasm the poems of his father-in-law. One of the 
poems begins with this useful piece of information ; 

Lo don vabh Padric na mhvir, 
Gun Sailm air uidhj ach a gol, 
Ghluais p thigh Ossian mhic Fhion, 
O san leis bu bhinn a ghloir. 



80 DLSSEItTATION ON 

The title of this poeni is " Teantach irior na Fk a." 
It appears to have been fouudecl on the same storj /♦'ith 
the " Battle of Lora." The circumstances and catas- 
trophe in both are much the same : but the Irish Os- 
sian discovers the age in which he lived by an unlucky 
anachronism. After describing the total rout of Er 
ragon, he very gravely concludes with this remarkable 
anecdote, that none of the foe escaped, but a few, who 
were permitted to go on' a pilgrimage to the Holy 
Land. This circumstance fixes the date of tlie com- 
position of the piece some centuries after the famous 
croisade : for it is evident that the poet thought the 
time of the croisade so ancient, that he confounds it 
with the age of Fingal. Erragon, in the course of 
this poem, is often called, 

Khoigh Lochlin an do shloigh, 
King of Denmark of two nations- 

which alludes to the union of the kingdom of Norway 
and Denmark, a circumstance which happened under 
Margaret do Waldemar, in the close of the fourteenth 
age. Modern, however, as this pretended Ossian was, 
it is certain he lived before -the Irish had dreamed of 
appropriating Fion, or Fingal, to themselves. He con- 
cludes the poem with this reflection : 

Na fagha se comhthrom nan n arm, 
Erragon ]M'dc Annir nan lann gias 
'San n'Albiu ni n' abairtair Triath 
Agus ghlaoite an n' Fhiona as. 

'^ad Erragon, son of Annir of gleaming swords, 
avoided the equal contest of arms, (single com'bat,) no 
chief should have afterward been numbered in Albion, 
and the heroes of Fion should no more be named." 

The next poem that falls under our observation is 
" Cath-cabhra," or " The Death of Oscar." This 
piece is founded on the same story which we have in 
the first book of Temora. So little thought the author 



THE JPOEMS Of OSSIAN. 81 

of Cath-cabhra of making Oscar his countryman, that 
in the coLirsc of two hundred b'nes, of which the poem 
consists, he puts the following expression thrice in th-j 
mouth of the hero : 

Albin an sa d'roina m' arach. — 
Albion, where I was bom and bred. 

The poem contains almost all the incidents in the first 
book of Temora. In one circumstance the bard dif- 
fers materially from Ossian. Oscar, after he was mor- 
tally wounded by Cairbar, was carried by his people to 
a neighboring hill which commanded a prospect of the 
sea. A fleet appeared at a distance, and the hero ex- 
claims with joy, 

Loingeas nio shean-athair at' an 
'S lad a tiachd le cabhair chugain, 
O Albin na n'ioma stuagh. 

" It is the fleet of my grandfather coming with aid to 
our field, from Albion of many waves !" The testi- 
mony of this bard is sufficient to confute the idle fic- 
tions of Keating and O'Flaherty, for, though he is far 
from being ancient, it is probable he flourished a full 
century before these historians. He appears, however, 
to have been a much better Christian than chronologer ; 
for Fion, though he is placed two centuries before St. 
Patrick, very devoutly recommends the soul of his 
grandson to his Redeemer. 

'•' Duan a Gharibh Mac-Starn" is another Irish poem 
in great repute. The grandeur of its images, and its 
propriety of sentiment, might have induced me to give 
a translation of it, had I not some expectations, which 
are now over, of seeing it in the collection of the Irish 
Ossian's Poems, promised twelve years since to the 
public. The author descends sometimes from the re- 
gion of the sublime to low and indecent description; 
the last of which, the Irish translator, no doubt, will 
choose to leave in the obscurity of the original. la 



8f2 DISSERTATION ON 

this piece Cuthullin is used with very Httle ceremony, 
for he is oft called the " dog of Tara," in the county 
of Meath. This severe title of the redoubtable Cuthul- 
lin, the most renowned of Irish champions, proceeded 
from the poet's ignorance of etymology. Cu, " voice" 
or commander, signifies also a dog. The poet chose 
the last, as the most noble appellation for his hero. 

The subject of the poem is the same with that of the 
epic poem of Fingal. Caribh Mac-Starn is the same 
with Ossian's Swaran, the son of Starno. His single 
combats with, and his victory over, all the heroes of 
Ireland, excepting the " celebrated dog of Tara," i. e, 
Cuthullin, afford matter for two hundred lines of tole- 
erable poetry. Cribh's progress in search of Cu- 
thullin, and his intrigue with the gigantic Emir- 
bragal, that hero's wife, enables the poet to extend his 
piece to four hundred lines. This author, it is true, 
makes Cuthullin a native of Ireland : the gigantic 
Emir-bragal he calls the "guiding-star of the women 
of Ireland." The property of this enormous lady I 
shall not dispute with him or any other. But as he 
speaks with great tenderness of the " daughters of the 
convent," and throws out some hints against the 
English nation, it is probable he lived in too modern a 
period to be intimately acquainted with the genealogy 
of Cuthullin. 

Another Irish Ossian, for there were many, as ap- 
pears from their difference in language and sentiment, 
speaks very dogmatically of Fion Mac Comnal, as an 
Irishman. Little can be said for the judgment of this 
poet, and less for his delicacy of sentiment. The his- 
tory of one of his episodes may, at once, stand as a 
specimen of his want of both. Ireland, in the days of 
Fion, happened to be threatened with an invasion by 
three great potentates, the kings of Lochlin, Sweden, 
and France. It is needless to insist upon the impro- 



lilt roEMn or ossiAiv. 6S- 

priety of a French invasion of Ireland ; it is sufficient 
for me to be faithful to the language of my author. 
Fion, upon receiving intelligence of the intended inva- 
sion, sent Ca-olt, Ossian, and Oscar, to watch the bay 
in which it was apprehended the enemy was to land. 
Oscar was the worst choice of a scout that could be 
made ; for, brave as he was, he had the bad property 
of very often falling asleep on his post, nor was it pos- 
sible to awake him, without cutting oiT one of his fin- 
gers, or dashing a large stone against his head. 
When the enemy appeared, Oscar, very unfortunately, 
was asleep. Ossian and Ca-olt consulted about the 
method of wakening him, and they at last fixed on the 
stone as the less dangerous expedient — - 

Gun thog Caoilte a chlach, nach gan, 
Agus a n' aigliai' chiean gun bhuail ; 
Tri mil an tuUoch gun chri', &c. 

" Ca-olt took up a heavy stone, and struck it against 
the hero's head. The hill shook for three miles, as 
the stone rebounded and rolled away." Oscar rose in 
wrath, and his father gravely desired him to spend his 
rage on his enemies, which he did to so good purpose, 
that he singly routed a whole wing of their army. 
The confederate kings advanced, notwithstanding, till 
they came to a narrow pass possessed by the cele- 
brated Ton-iosal. This name is very significant of 
the singular property of the hero who bore it. Ton- 
iosal, though brave, was so heavy and unwieldy, that 
when he sat down it took the whole force of a hundred 
men to set him upright on his feet again. Luckily for 
the preservation of Ireland, the hero happened to be 
standing when the enemy appeared, and he gave so 
good an account of them, that Fion, upon his arrival, 
found little to do but to divide the spoil among his soldiers. 

All these extraordinary heroes, Fion, Ossian, Oscar, 
and Ca-olt, says the poet, were 



84 DISSERTATION ON 

Siol Eriu na gonri lami. 

The sons of Erin of blue steel. 

Neither shall I much dispute the matter with him ; he 
has my consent also to appropriate to Ireland the cele- 
brated Ton-iosal. I shall only say that they are dif- 
ferent persons from those of the same name in the 
Scots Poems ; and that, though the stupendous valor 
of the first is so remarkable, they have not been 
equally lucky with the latter, in their poet. It is some- 
what extraordinary that Fion, who lived some ages be- 
fore St. Patrick, swears like a very good Christian. 

Air an Dia do chum gach case. 
By God who shaped eveiy case. 

It is worthy of being remarked, that, in the line 
quoted, Ossian, who lived in St. Patrick's days, seems 
to have understood something of the English, a lan- 
guage not then subsisting. A person more sanguine 
for the honor of his country than I am, might argue 
from this circumstance, that this pretendedly Irish Os- 
sian was a native of Scotland ; for my countrymen are 
universally allowed to have an exclusive right to the 
second sight. 

From the instances given, the reader may form a 
complete idea of the Irish compositions concerning the 
Fiona. The greatest part of them make the heroes of 
Fion, 

Siol Albina n*nioma caoile. 

The race of Albion of many firths. 

The rest make tliem natives of Ireland. But the truth 
is, that their authority is of little consequence on 
either side. From the instances I have given, they 
appear to have been the work of a very modern period. 
The pious ejaculations they contain, their allusions to 
the manners of the times, fix them to the fifteenth cen- 
tury. Had even the authors of these pieces avoided all 
allusions to their own times, it is impossible that the 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 85 

poems coLild pass for ancient in the eyes of any person 
tolerably conversant with the Irish tongue. The idiom 
is so corrupted, and so many words borrowed from the 
English, that the language must have made considera- 
ble progress in Ireland before the poems were written. 

It remains now to show how the Irish bards began 
to appropriate the Scottish Ossian and his heroes to 
their own country. After the English conquest, many 
of the natives of Ireland, averse to a foreign yoke, 
either actually were in a state of hostility with the con- 
querors, or, at least, paid little regard to government. 
The Scots, in those ages, were often in open war, and 
never in cordial friendship, with the English. The 
similarity of manners and language, the traditions con- 
cerning their common origin, and, above all, their 
having to do with the same enemy, created a free and 
friendly intercourse between the Scottish and Irish 
nations. As the custom of retaining bards and sena- 
.chies was common to both, so each, no doubt, had 
formed a system of history, it matters not how much 
soever fabulous, concerning their respective origin. It 
was the natural policy' of the times to reconcile the 
traditions of both nations together, and, if possible, to 
deduce them from the same original stock. 

The Saxon manners and languag^had, at that time, 
made great progress in the south of Scotland. The 
ancient language, and the traditional history of the na- 
tion, became confined entirely to the inhabitants of the 
Highlands, then falling, from several concurring cir- 
cumstances, into the la.st degree of ignorance and bar- 
barism. The Irish, who, for some ages before the 
conquest, had possessed a competent share of that kind 
of learning which then prevailed in Europe, found it 
no difficult matter to impose their own fictions on the 
ignorant Highland senachies. By flattering the vanity 
of the Highlanders with their long list of Hermonian 

8 



m DISSERTATION ON 

kings and heroes, they, without contradiction, assumed 
to themselves the character of being the mother-nation 
of the Scots of Britain. At this time, certainly, was 
established that Hibernian system of the original of 
the Scots, which afterward, for want of any other, was 
universally received. The Scots of the low country, 
who, by losing the language of their ancestors, lost, 
together with it, their national traditions, received im- 
plicitly the history of their country from Irish refugees, 
or from Highland senachies, persuaded over into the 
Hibernian system. 

These circumstances are far from being ideal. We 
have remaining many particular traditions which bear 
testimony to a fact of itself abundantly probable. 
What makes the matter incontestible is, that the an- 
cient traditional accounts of the genuine origin of the 
Scots, have been handed down without interruption. 
Though a few ignorant senachies might be persuaded 
out of their own opinion by the smoothness of an 
Irish tale, it was impossible to eradicate, from among 
the bulk of the people, their own national traditions. 
These traditions afterward so much prevailed, that the 
Highlanders continue totally unacquainted with the pre- 
tended Hibernian extract of the Scotch nation. Igno- 
rant chronicle writers, strangers to the ancient lan- 
guage of their country, preserved only from falling to 
the ground so improbable a story. 

This subject, perhaps, is pursued farther than it de- 
serves ; but a discussion of the pretensions of Ireland 
was become in some measure necessary. If the Irish 
poems concerning the Fiona should appear ridiculous, 
it is but justice to observe, that they are scarcely more 
so than the poems of other nations at that period. On 
other subjects, the bards of Ireland have displayed a 
genuis for poetry. It was alone in matters of antiquity 
that they were monstrous in their fables. Their love* 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. ^7 

sonnets, and their elegies on the death of persons wor- 
thy or renowned, abound wi^h simplicity, and a wild har- 
mony of numbers. They necame more than an atone- 
ment for their errors in every other species of poetry. 
But the beauty of these species depends so much on a 
certain curiosa feliciias of expression m the original, 
that they must appear much to disadvantage in another 
language 



A 

CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

ox 

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN, 

THE SON OF FINGAL. 

BY HUGH BLAIR, D. D. 

One of the Ministers of the High Church, and Professor of Rhetoric 
and Belles Lettres, Edinburgh. 



Among the monuments remaining of the ancient state 
of nations, few are more valuable than their poems or 
songs. History, when it treats of remote or dark ages, 
is seldom very instructive. The beginnings of society, 
in every country, are involved in fabulous confusion ; 
and though they were not, they would furnish few 
events worth recording. But, in every period of so- 
ciety, human manners are a curious spectacle ; and the 
most natural pictures of ancient manners are exhibited 
in the ancient poems of nations. These present to us 
what is much more valuable than the history of such 
transactions as a rude age can afford — the history of 
human imagination and passion. They make us ac- 
quainted with the notions and feelings of our fellow 
creatures in the most artless ages ; discovering what 
objects they admired, and what pleasures they pursued, 
before those refinements of society had taken place, 
which enlarge, indeed, and diversify the transactions, 
but disguise the manners of mankind. 



CRITICAL DISSERTATION. ETC. 89 

Besides this merit which ancient poems iiiive with 
philosophical observers of human nature, they have 
another with persons of taste. They promise some of 
the highest beauties of poetical writing. Irregular 
and unpolished we may expect the production of uncul- 
tivated ages to be ; but abounding, at the same time, 
with that enthusiasm, that vehemence and fire, which 
are the soul of poetry: for many circumstances of 
those times which we call barbarous, are favorable to 
the poetical spirit. That state, in which human nature 
shoots wild and free, though unfit for other improve- 
ments, certainly encourages the high exertions of fan- 
cy and passion. 

In the infancy of societies, men live scattered and 
dispersed in the midst of solitary rural scenes, where 
the beauties of nature are their chief entertainment. 
They meet with many objects to them new and strange ; 
their wonder and surprise are frequently excited ; and 
by the sudden changes of fortune occurring in their 
unsettled state of life, their passions are raised to the 
utmost ; their passions have nothing to restrain them, 
their imagination has nothing to check it. They dis- 
play themselves to one another without disguise, and 
converse and act in the uncovered simplicity of nature. 
As their feelings are strong, so their language, of it- 
self, assumes a poetical turn. Prone to exaggerate, 
they describe every thing in the strongest colors ; which 
of course renders their speech picturesque and figura- 
tive. Figurative language ov/es its rise chiefly to two 
causes ; to the want of proper names for objects, and 
to the influence of imagination and j)assion over the 
form of expression. Both these causes concur in the 
infancy of society. Figures are commonly considered 
as artificial modes of speech, devised by orators and 
poets, after the world had advanced to a refined state. 
The contrary of this is the truth. Men never have 
8* 



90 CRITICAL JjlSSERTATlO^ 

used so many figures of style as in those rude ages, 
when, besides the power of a warm imagination to sug- 
gest lively images, the want of proper and precise 
terms for the ideas they would express, obliged them to 
have recourse to circumlocution, metaphor, compari- 
son, and all those substituted forms of expression, 
which give a poetical air to language. An American 
chief, at this day, harangues at the head of his tribe in 
a more bold and metaphorical style than a modern Eu- 
ropean would adventure to use in an epic poem. 

In the progress of society, the genius and manners 
of men undergo a change more favorable to accuracy 
than to sprightliness and sublimity. As the world ad- 
vances, the understanding gains ground upon the ima- 
gination ; the understanding is more exercised ; the 
imagination, less. Fewer objects occur that are new or 
surprising. Men apply themselves to trace the causes 
of things ; they correct and refine one another ; they 
subdue or disguise their passions ; they form their ex- 
terior manners upon one uniform standard of politeness 
and civility. Human nature is pruned according to 
method and rule. Language advances from sterility 
to copiousness, and at the same time from fervor and 
enthusiasm, to correctness and precision. Style be- 
comes more chaste, but less animated. The progress 
of the world in this respect resembles the progress of 
age in man. The powers of imagination are most 
vigorous and predominant in youth ; those of the un- 
derstanding ripen more slowly, and often attain not to 
their maturity till the imagination begins to flag. Hence 
"poetry, which is the cliild of imagination, is frequently 
most glowing ana animated in the first ages of society. 
As the ideas of our youth are remembered with a pe- 
culiar pleasure, on account of their liveliness and vi- 
vacity, so the most ancient poems have often proved 
the greatest favorites of nations. 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 91 

Poetry has been said to be more ancient than prose ; 
and, however paradoxical sucli an assertion may seem, 
yet, in a qualified sense, it is true. Men certainly never 
conversed with one another in regular numbers ; but 
even their ordinary language would, in ancient times, 
for the reasons before assigned, approach to a poetical 
style ; and the first compositions transmitted to pos- 
terity, beyond doubt, were, in a literal sense, poems ; 
that is, compositions in which imagination had the 
chief hand, formed into some kind of numbers, and 
pronounced with a musical modulation or tone. Music 
or song has been found coeval with society among the 
most barbarous nations. The only subjects which 
could prompt men, in their first rude state, to utter 
their thoughts in compositions of any length, were such 
as naturally assumed the tone of poetry : praises of 
their gods, or of their ancestors : commemorations of 
their own warlike exploits, or lamentations over their 
misfortunes. And, before writing was invented, no 
othei- compositions, except songs or poems, could take 
such hold of the imagination and memory, as to be pre- 
served by oral tradition, and handed down from one 
race to another. 

Hence we may expect to find poems among the an- 
tiquities of all nations. It is probable, too, that an ex- 
tensive search would discover a certain degree of 
resemblance among all the most ancient poetical pro- 
ductions, from whatever country they have proceeded. 
In a similar state of manners, similar objects and 
passions, operating upon the imaginations of men, will 
stamp their productions with the same general charac- 
ter. Some diversity will, no doubt, be occasioned by 
climate and genius. But mankind never bear such 
resembling features as they do in the beginnings of 
society. Its subsequent revolutions give rise to the 
principal distincfions among nations ; and divert, into 



92 CRITICAL DlSSERTAliO 

channels widely separated, that current of human 
genius and manners which descends originally from 
one spring. What we have been long accustomed to 
call the oriental vein of poetry, because some of the 
earliest poetical productions have come to us from the 
east, is probably no more oriental than occidental : it 
is characteristical of an age rather than a country , 
and belongs, in some measure, to all nations at a cer- 
tain period. Of this the works of Ossian seem to fur- 
nish a remarkable proof. 

Our present subject leads us to investigate the an- 
cient poetical remains, not so much of the cast, or of 
the Greeks and Romans, as of the northern nations, in 
order to discover whether the Gothic poetry has any 
resemblance to the Celtic or Gaelic, which we are 
about to consider. Though the Goths, under which 
name we usually comprehend all the Scandinavian 
tribes, were a people altogeth'^-r fierce and mrj-ti !, 
and noted, to a proverb, for theJr ignorance of the lib- 
eral arts, yet they too, from the cnrUest times, had their 
poets and their songs. Their poets were distinguished 
by the title of Scalders, and theiv s-nngs were termed 
Vyses. Saxo Grammaticus, a Danisli h'-storian of con- 
siderable note, who flourished in the thirteenth century, 
informs us, that very many of these songs, containing 
the ancient traditionary stories of the copnt*-v, were 
found engraven upon rocks in the old Runic character, 
several of which he has translated into Latin, and in- 
serted into Ins history. But his versions are plainlyso 
paraphrastical, and forcsd into such an imitation of the 
style and the measures of the Roman poets, that one 
can form no judgment fi-om them of the native spirit 
of the original. A mo?*e curious monument of the true 
Gothic poetry is {)reserved by Olaus Wormius in his 
book de Literatura Runica. It is an cpicedium, or fu- 
neral song, composed by Regner Lodbros;, and trans- 



ON TTTE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 03 

lated by Olaus, word for word, from the original. 
This Lodbrog was a king of Denmark, who lived in 
the eighth century, famous for his wars and victories ; 
and at the same time an eminent scalder, or poet. It 
was his misfortune to fall at last into the hands of one of 
his enemies, by whom he was thrown into prison, and 
condemned to be destroyed by serpents. In this situ- 
ation he solaced himself with rehearsing all the exploits 
of his life. The poem is divided into twenty-nine 
stanzas, of ten lines each ; and every stanza begins 
with these words, " Pugnavimus ensibus," We have 
fought with our swords. Olaus's version is in many 
places so obscure as to be hardly intelligible. I have 
subjoined the whole below, exactly as he has published 
it ;* and shall translate as much as may give the Eng- 
lish reader an idea of the spirit and strain of this kind 
of poetry. 

" We have fought with our swords. I was young, 
when, towards the east, in the bay of Oreon, we made 
torrents of blood flow, to gorge the ravenous beast of 
prey, and the yellow-footed bird. There resounded 
the hard steel upon the lofty helmets of men. The 
whole ocean was one wound. The crow waded in the 
blood of the slain. When we had numbered twenty 
years, we lifted our spears on high, and everywhere 
spread our renown. Eight barons we overcame in the 
east, before the port of Diminum ; and plentifully we 
feasted the eagle in that slaughter. The warm stream 
of wounds ran into the ocean. The army fell before 
us. When we steered our ships into the mouth of the 
Vistula, we sent the Helsingians to the hall of Odin. 
Then did the sword bite. The waters were all one 
wound. The earth was dyed red with the warm 
stream. The sword rung upon the coats of mail, and 



♦ Seo the note at. the piid of the Dissertfrtion. 



94 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

clove the bucklers in twain. None fled on that day, 
till among his ships Heraudus fell. Than him no 
braver baron cleaves the sea with ships; a cheerful 
heart did he ever bring to the combat. Then the host 
threw away their shields, when the uplifted spear flew 
at the breast of heroes. The sword bit the Scarfiau 
rocks ; bloody was the shield in battle, until Rafno the 
king was slain. From the heads of warriors the warm 
sweat streamed down their armor. The crows around 
the Indirian islands had an ample prey. It were diffi- 
cult to single out one among so many deaths. At the 
rising of the sun I beheld the spears piercing the bo- 
dies of foes, and the bows throwing forth their steel- 
pointed arrows. Loud roared the swords in the plains 
of Lano. — The virgin long bewailed the slaughter of 
that morning." — In this strain the poet continues to 
describe several other military exploits. The images 
are not much varied : the noise of arms, the streaming of 
blood, and the feasting the birds of prey often recurring. 
He mentions the death of two of his sons in battle ; 
and the lamentation he describes as made for one of 
them is very singular. A Grecian or a Roman poet 
would have introduced the virgins or nymphs of the 
wood bewailing the untimely fall of a young hero. 
But, says our Gothic poet, " When Rogvaldus was 
slain, for him mourned all the hawks of heaven," as 
lamenting a benefactor who had so liberally supplied 
them with prey ; " for boldly," as he adds, '•' in the 
strife of swords did the breaker of helmets throw the 
spear of blood." 

The poem concludes with sentiments of the highest 
bravery and contempt of death. " What is more cer- 
tain to the brave man than death, though amidst the 
storm of swords he stands always ready to oppose it ? 
He only regrets this life who hath never known dis- 
tress. The timorous man allures the devouring eagle to 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 95 

the field of battle. The coward, wherever he comes, is 
useless to himself. This I esteem honorable, that the 
youth should advance to the combat fairly matched one 
against another ; nor man retreat from man. Long 
was this the warrior's highest glory. He who aspires 
to the love of virgins, ought always to be foremost in 
the roar of arms. It appears to me, of truth, that we 
are led by the Fates. Seldom can any overcome the 
appointment of destiny. Little did I foresee that Ella 
was to have my life in his hands, in that day when 
fainting I concealed my blood, and pushed forth my 
ships into the waves ; after we had spread a repast for 
the beasts of prey throughout the Scottish bays. But 
this makes me always rejoice, that in the halls of our fa- 
ther Balder [or OJin] I know there are seats prepared, 
where, in a short time, we shall be drinking ale out of 
the hollow skulls of our enemies. In the house of the 
mighty Odin, no brave man laments death. I come 
not with the voice of despair to Odin's hall. How 
eagerly would all the sons of Aslauga now rush to war, 
did they know the distress of their father, whom a mul- 
titude of venomous serpents tear ! I have given to my 
children a mother who hath filled their hearts with 
valor. I am fast approaching to my end. A cruel 
death awaits me from the viper's bite. A snake dwells 
in the midst of my heart. I hope that the sword of 
some of my sons shall yet be stained with the blood of 
Ella. The valiant youths will wax red with anger, 
ajid will not sit in peace. Fifty and one times have I 
reared the standard in battle. In my youth I learned 
to dye the sword in blood : my hope was then that no 
king among men would be more renowned than me. 
The goddesses of death will now soon call me ; I must 
not mourn my death. Now I end my song. The god- 
desses invite me away ; they whom Odin has sent to 
me from his hall. I will sit upon a lofty seat, and 



9G cniTICAL DISSEirr.ATION' 

drink ale joyfully with the goddesses of death. The 
hours of my life are run out. I will smile when I 
die." 

This is such poetry as we might expect from a bar- 
barous nation. It breathes a most ferocious spirit. It 
is wild, harsh, and irregular ; but at the same time 
animated and strong ; the style in the original, full of 
inversions, and, as we learn from some of Olaus's 
notes, highly metaphorical and figured. 

But when we open the works of Ossian, a very dif- 
ferent scene presents itself. There we find the fire 
and enthusiasm of the most early times, combined with 
an amazing degree of i-cgularity and art. We find 
tenderness, and even delicacy of sentiment, greatly 
predominant over fierceness and barbarity. Our 
hearts are melted with the softest feelings, and at the 
same time elevated with the highest ideas of magnani- 
mity, generosity, and true heroism. When we turn 
from the poetry of Lodbrog to that of Ossian, it is like 
passing from a savage desert into a fertile and cultivated 
country. How is this to be accounted for ? or by what 
means to be reconciled with the remote antiquity at- 
tributed to these poems ? This is a curious point, and 
requires to be illustrated. 

That the ancient Scots were of Celtic original, is 
past all doubt. Their conformity with the Celtic na- 
tions in language, manners, and religion, proves it to a 
full demonstration. The Celtte, a great and mighty 
people, altogether distinct from the Goths and Teutones, 
once extended their dominion over all the west of Eu- 
rope ; but seem to have had their most full and com- 
plete establishment in Gaul. Wherever the Celtse or 
Gauls are mentioned by ancient writers, we seldom 
fail to hear of their Druids and their Bards ; the insti- 
tution of which two orders was the capital distinction 
of their manners and policy. The druids were their 



OM TUT. poem; C>r U3.3IAN. 97 

philosophers and priests ; the bards their poets and re- 
corders of heroic actions ; and both these orders of 
men seem to have subsisted among them, as chief mem- 
bers of the sta-te, from time immemorial. We must not 
therefore imagine the Celtge to have been altogether a 
gross and rude nation. They possessed from very re- 
mote ages a formed S3'stem of discipline and manners, 
which appears to have had a deep and lasting influence. 
Ammianus Marcellinus gives them this express testi- 
mony, that there floui-ished among them the study of 
the most laudable arts, introduced by the bards, whose 
office it was to sing in heroic verse the gallant actions 
of illustrious men ; and by the druids, who lived toge- 
ther in colleges, or societies, after the Pythagorean 
manner, and, philosophizing upon the highest subjects, 
asserted the immortality of the human soul. Though 
Julius Csesar, in his account of Gaul, does not expressly 
mention the bards, yet it is plain that, under the title 
of Druids, he comprehends that whole college or or- 
der ; of v.'hich the bards, who, it is probable, were the 
disciples of the druids, undoubtedly made a part. It 
deserves remark, that, according to his account, the 
druidical instiuuion first took rise in Britain, and passed 
from thence into Gaul ; so that they who aspired to be 
thorough masters of that learning, were wont to resort 
to Britain. He adds, too, that such as were to be in- 
itiated among the druids, v^^ere obliged to commit to 
their memory a great number of verses, insomuch that 
gome employed twenty years in this course of educa- 
lion ; and that they did not think it lawful to record 
those poems in writing, but sacredly handed them 
down by tradition from race to race. 

So strong was the attachment of the Celtic nations tc 

their poetry and bards, that, amidst all the changes of 

their government and manners, even long after the or= 

der of the druids was extinct, and the national religion 

9 



98 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

iiltered, the bards continued to /lourish ; not ay a set of 
strolling songsters, like the Greek 'AolSoi, or Rhapso- 
dists, in Homer's time, but as an order of men highly 
respected in the state, and supported by a" public cstab- 
lishmeiit. We find them, according to the testimonies 
of Strabo and Diodorus, before the age of Augustus 
Ccesar ; and we find them remaining under the same 
name, and exercising the same functions as of old, in 
(reland, and in the north of J^cotland, almost down to 
•>ur own times. It is well known, that in both these 
countries every regulus or chief had his own bard, who 
was considered as an officer of rank in his court ; and had 
lands assigned him, which descended to his family. Of 
the honor in which the bards were held, many instances 
occur in Ossian's Poems. On all important occasions 
they were the ambassadors between contending chiefs ; 
Mnd their persons were held sacred. " Cairbar feared to 
stretch h's sword to the bards, though his soul was 
dark. ' Loose the bards,' said his brother Cathmor, 
' they are the sons of other times. Their voice shall 
be heard in' other ages, wlien liie kings of Temora have 
failed.'" 

From all this, the Celtic tribes clearly appear to have 
been addicted in so high a degree to poetry, and to 
have made it so much their study from the earliest 
times, as may remove our wonder at meeting with a 
vein of higher poetical refinement among them, than 
was at first to have been expected among nations whom 
we are accustomed to call barbarous. Barbarity. I 
must observe, is a very equivocal term ; it admits of 
many different forms and degrees; and though, in all 
of them, it excludes polished manners, it is, however, 
not inconsistent with generous sentiments and tender 
affections. What degrees of friendship, love, and 
heroism may possibly be found to prevail in a rude state 
of society, no one can say. Astonishing instances of 



ON THE POEMS OP OSSIAN. 99 

them we know, from history, have sometimes appear- 
ed ; and a few characters, distinguished by those high 
quaUties, might lay a foundation for a set of manners 
being introduced into the songs of the bards, more re- 
fined, it is probable, and exalted, according to the usual 
poetical license, than the real manners of the country. 
In particular, Avith respect to heroism ; the great 
employment of the Celtic bards was to de-lineate the 
characters, and sing the praises of heroes. So Lucan— 

Vos cjuoque qui iortes animos, belloque peremptos, 
Laudibus in lon^jim vates diiruiiditis sevum 
Plurima securi, Hdistis carmina bardi. — Phars. 1. 1. 

Now when \ve consider a college or order of men, 
who, cultivating poetry throughout a long scries of ages, 
had their im;\ginations continually employed on the 
ideas of heroism ; who had all the poems and pane- 
gyrics, which were composed by their predecessors, 
handed down to them with care ; who rivalled and 
endeavored to outstrip those who had gone before 
them, each in the cfdebration of his particular hero ; 
is it not natural to think, that at length the character 
of a hero would appear in their songs with the highest 
lustre, and be adorned with qualities truly noble ? 
Some of the qualities indeed which distinguish a Fin- 
gal, moderation, humanity, and clemency, would not 
probably be the first ideas of heroism occurring to a 
barbarous people : but no sooner had such ideas be- 
gun to dawn on the minds of poets, than, as the hu- 
man mind easily opens to the native representations 
of human perfection, they would be seized and em- 
braced ; they would enter into their panegyrics ; they 
would afibrd ma,terials for succeeding bards to v/ork 
upon and improve ; they would contribute not a little 
to exalt the public manners. For such songs as these, 
familiar to the Celtic warriors from their childhood, 
and, throughout Iheir whole life, both in war and in 



100 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

peace, their principal entertainment, must have had a 
very considerable influence in propagating among 
them real manners, nearly approaching to the poeti- 
cal ; and in forming even such a hero as Fingal. 
Especially when we consider, that among their limited 
objects of ambition, among the few advantages which, 
in a savage state, man could obtain over man, the 
chief was fame, and that immortality which they ex- 
pected to receive from their virtues and exploits, in 
the songs of bards. 

Having made these remarks on the Celtic poetry 
iiiid bards in general, I shall next consider the particu- 
lar advantages which Ossian possessed. He appears 
clearly to have lived in a period which enjoyed all the 
benefit I just now mentioned of traditionary poetry. 
The exploits of Trathal, Trenmor, and the other an- 
cestors of Fingal, are spoken of as familiarly known. 
Ancient bards are frequently alluded to. In one re- 
markable passage Ossian describes himself as living in 
a sort of classical age, enlightened by the memorials 
of former times, which were conveyed in the songs of 
bards ; and points at a period of darkness and igno- 
rance which lay beyond the reach of tradition. " His 
words," says he, ''came only by halves to our ears; 
they were dark as the tales of other times, before the 
light of the song arose." Ossian himself appears to 
have been endowed by nature with an exquisite sensi- 
bility of heart ; prone to that tender melancholy which 
is so often an attendant on great genius : and suscepti- 
ble equally of strong and of soft emotion. He was 
not only a professed bard, educated with care, as we 
may easily believe, to all the poetical art then known, 
and connected, as he shows us himself, in intimate 
friendship with the other contemporary bards, but a 
warrior also ; and the son of the most renowned hero 
and prince of his age. This formed a conjunction of 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 101 

circumstances uncommonly favorable towards exalting 
the imagination of a poet. He relates expeditions in 
which he had been engaged ; he sings of battles in 
which he had fought and overcome ; he had beheld the 
most illustrious scenes which that age could exhibit, 
both of heroism in war and magnificence in peace. 
For however rude the magnificence of those times may 
seem to us, we must remember, that all ideas of mag- 
nificence are comparative ; and that the age of Fingal 
was an sera of distinguished splendor in that part of the 
world. Fingal reigned over a considerable territory ; 
he was enriched with the spoils of the Roman province j 
he was ennobled by his victories and great actions ; 
and was in all respects a personage of much higher 
dignity than any of the chieftains, or heads of clans, 
who lived in tlie same country, after a more extensive 
monarchy was established. 

The manners of Ossian's age, so far as we can 
gather them from his writings, were abundantly favor- 
able to a poetical genius. The two dispiriting vices, 
to which Longinus imputes the decline of poetry, cov- 
etousness and effeminacy, were as yet unknown. The 
cares of men were few. They lived a roving indolent 
life ; hunting and war their principal employments ; 
and their chief amusements, the music of bards, and 
" the feast of shells." The great objects pursued by 
heroic spirits, was " to receive their fame ;" that is, to 
become worthy of being celebrated in the songs of 
bards ; and " to have their name on the four gray 
stones." To die unlamented by a bard, was deemed so 
great a misfortune as even to disturb their ghosts in 
another state. " They wander in thick mists beside 
the reedy lake ; but never shall they rise, without the 
song, to the dwelling of winds." After death, they 
expected to follow employments of the same nature 
with those which had amused them on earth ; to fly 
9* 



102 CKITIOAL IJlS^KRTATiO.S 

with tlieir iricnds on clouds, to pursue airy deer, and to 
listen to their praise in tlie mouths of bards. In such 
times as these, in a country where poetry had been so 
long cultivated, and so highly honored, is it any won- 
der that, among the race and succession of bards, one 
Homer should arise : a man, who, endowed with a 
natural happy genius, favored with peculiar advantages 
of birth and condition, and meeting, in the course of his 
life, with a variety of incidents proper to fire his imagi- 
nation, and to touch his heart, should attain a degree 
of eminence in j)octry, worthy to draw the admiration 
of more refined ages ? 

The compositions of Ossian are so strongly marked 
with characters of antiquity, that although there were 
no external proof to support that antiquity, hardly any 
reader of judgment and taste could hesitate in referring 
them to a very remote sera. Tliere are four great 
stages through which men successively pass in the pro- 
gress of society. The first and earliest is the life of 
hunters ; pa.sturage succeeds to this, as the ideas of 
property begin to take root ; next agriculture ; and, 
lastly, commerce. Throughout Ossian's Poems we 
plainly find ourselves in the first of these periods of so- 
ciety; during which hunting was the chief employment of 
men, and the principal method of their procuring subsist- 
ence. Pasturage was not indeed wholly unknown ; for 
we hear of dividing the herd in the case of a divorce ; 
but the allusions to herds and to cattle are not many ; 
and of agriculture we find no traces. No cities ap- 
pear to have been built in the territories of Fingal. No 
arts are mentioned, except that of navigation and of 
working in iron. Every thing presents to us the most 
simple and unimproved manners. At their feasts, the 
heroes prepared their own repast ; they sat round the 
light of the burning oak ; the wind lifted their locks, 
and whistled through their open halh;. Whatever was 



beyond the neuessai-ies of life was known to them only 
as the spoil of the Roman province ; " the gold of the 
stranger; the lights of the stranger; the steeds of 
the stranger; the children of the rein." 

The representation of Ossian's times mast strike us 
the more, as genuine and authentic, when it is com- 
pared with a poem of later date, which ?»Ir. Macpher- 
son has preserved in one of his notes. It is that in 
whi<:h five bards are represented as passing the even- 
ing in the house of a chief, and each of them separately 
giving his description of the night. The night scenery 
is beautiful ; and the author has plainly imitated the 
style and manner of Ossian ; but he has allowed some 
images to appear \vhich betray a later period of society. 
For we meet with windows clapping, the herds of goats 
and cows seeking shelter, the shepherd v^andering, corn 
on the plain, and the wakeful hind rebuilding the shocks 
of corn which had been overturned by the tempest. 
Whereas, in Ossian's works, from beginning to end, all 
is consistent ; no modern allusion drops from him ; but 
everywhere the same face of rude Uciture appears ; a 
country wholly uncultivated, thinly inhabited, and re- 
cently peopled. The grass of the rock, the flower of 
the heath, the thistle with its beard, are the chief orna- 
ments of his landscapes. '' The desert,'' says Fingal, 
" is enough for me, with all its woods and deer." 

The circle (^f* ideas and transactions is no 'vider than 
suits such an age ; nor any greater diversity introduce<i 
into characters, than the event.s of that period would 
naturally display. Valor and bodily strength are the 
admired qualities. Contentions arise, as is usual among 
savage nations, from the slightest causes. To be af- 
fronted at a tournament, or to be omitted in the invita- 
tion to'a feast, kindles a war. Women are often car- 
ried away by force ; and the wliolc tribe, as in the Ho- 
meric times, rise to avenge the wrong The heroes 



104 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

show retinem(irit of sentiment indeed on several occa- 
sions, but none of manners. They speak of their past 
actions with freedom, boast of their exploits, and sing 
their own praise. In their battles, it is evident, that 
drums, trumpets, or bagpipes, were not known or used. 
They had no expedient for giving the military alarms 
but striking a shield, or raising a loud cry : and hence 
the loud and terrible voice of Fingal is often mentioned 
as a necessary qualification of a great general ; like the 
fio^v ayaOos MsvsXaas of Homer. Of military discipline or 
skill they appear to have been entirely destitute. Their 
armies seem not to have been numerous ; their battles 
were disorderly ; and terminated, for the most part, by 
a personal combat, or wrestling of the two chiefs ; after 
which, "the bard sung the song of peace, and the bat- 
tle ceased along the field." 

The manner of composition bears all the marks of 
the greatest antiquity. No artful transitions, nor full 
and extended connexion of parts ; such as we find 
among the poets of later times, when order and regu- 
larity of composition were more studied and known : 
but a style always rapid and vchem.ent ; narration con- 
cise, even to abruptness, and leaving severed circum- 
stances to be supplied by the reader's imagination. 
The languag-e has all that figui-ative cast, which, as 1 
before showed, partly a glowing and undisciplined ima= 
gination, partly the sterility of language and the want 
of proper terms, have always introduced into the early 
speech of nations ; and in several res}x.'Cts, it carries a 
remarkable resemblance to the style of the Old Testa- 
ment. It deserves particular notice, as one of the most 
genuine and decisive characters of antiquity, that very 
few general terms, or abstract ideas, are to be met with 
in the whole collection of Ossian's works. The ideas 
of men, at first, were all particular. They had not 
words to express general conceptions. These were 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 105 

the consequences of more profound reflection, and lon- 
ger acquaintance with the arts of thought and of speech. 
Ossian, accordingly, almost never expresses himself ia 
the abstract. His ideas extended little further than to 
the objects he saw around him. A public, a commu- 
nity, the universe, were conceptions beyond his sphere. 
Even a mountain, a sea, or a lake, which he has occasion 
to mention, though only in a simile, are for the most 
part particularized ; it is the hill of Cromla, the storm 
of the sea of Malmor, or the reeds of the lake of Lego. 
A mode of expression which, while it is characteris- 
tical of ancient ages, is at the same time highly favora- 
ble to descriptive poetry. For the same reasons, per- 
sonification is a poetical figure not very common with 
Ossian. Inanimate objects, such as winds, trees, flow- 
ers, he sometimes personifies with great beauty. But 
the personifications which are so familiar to later poets, 
of Fame, Time, Terror, Virtue, and the rest of that 
class, were unknown to our Celtic bard. These were 
modes of conception too abstract for his age. 

All these are marks so undoubted, and some of them 
too so nice and delicate, of the most early times, as put 
the high antiquity of these poems out of question. Es- 
pecially when we consider, that if there had been any 
imposture in this case, it must have been contrived 
and executed in the Highlands of Scotland, two or three 
centuries ago ; as up to this period, both by mann- 
scripts, and by the testimony of a multitude of living 
witnesses, concerning the uncontrovertible tradition of 
these poems, they can clearly be traced. Now, this 
is a period when that country enjoyed no advantages 
for a composition of this kind, which it may not be sup- 
posed to have enjoyed in as great, if not in a greater 
degree, a thousand years before. To suppose that two 
or three hundred years ago, when we well know the 
Highlands to have been in a state of gross ignorance 



106 CttlTICAL DISSERTATION 

and barbarity, tliere should have arisen in that country 
a poet, of such exquisite genius, and of such deep 
knowledge of mankind, and of history, as to divest 
himself of the ideas and manners of his own age, and 
to give us a just and natural picture of a state of society 
ancienter by a thousand years ; one who could support 
this counterfeited antiquity through such a large collec- 
tion of poems, without the least inconsistency ; and 
who, possessed of all this genius and art, had, at the 
same time, the self-denial of concealing himself, and 
of ascribing his own works to an antiquated bard, with- 
out the imposture being detected ; is a supposition that 
transcends all bounds of credibility. 

There are, besides, two other circumstances to be 
attended to, still of greater weight, if possible, against 
this hypothesis. One is, the total absence of religious 
ideas from this work ; for which the translator has, in 
his preface, given a very probable account, on the 
footing of its being the work of Ossian. The druidical 
superstition was, in the days of Ossian, on the point of 
its final extinction ; and, for particular reasons, odious 
to the family of Fiiigal ; whilst the Christian faith was 
not yet established. But had it been the work of one 
to whom the ideas of Christianity were familiar from 
his infancy, and who had superadded to them also the 
bigoted superstition of a dark age and country, it is im- 
possible but in some passage or other, the traces of them 
would have appeared. The other circumstance is, the 
entire silence which reigns with respect to all the great 
clans or families which are ^ now established in the 
Highlands. The origin of these several clans is known 
to be very ancient ; and it is well known that there is 
no passion by which a native Highlander is more dis- 
tinguished than by attachment to his clan, and jealousy 
for its honor. That a Highland bard, in forging a 
work relating to the antiquities of his country, should 



OS THE FOEMS Of OSblAN- 101 

have inserted no circumstance which pointed out the 
rise of his own clan, which ascertained its antiquity, or 
increased its glory, is, of all suppositions that can be 
formed, the most improbable ; and the silence on this 
head amounts to a demonstration that the author lived 
before any of the present great clans were formed or 
known. 

Assuming it then, as well we may, for certainty, 
that the poems, now under consideration, are genuine 
venerable monuments of a very remote antiquity, I 
proceed to make some remiarks upon their general spirit 
and strain. The two great characteristics of Ossian's 
poetry are, tenderness and sublimity. It breathes 
nothing of the gay and cheeriul kind ; an air of 
solemnity and seriousness is diffused over the whole. 
Ossian is, perhaps, the only poet who never relaxes, 
or lets himself down into the light and amusing strain ; 
which I readily admit to be no small disadvantage to 
him, with the bulk of readers. He moves perpetually 
in the high region of the grand and the pathetic. One 
keynote is struck at the beginning, and supported to 
the end ; nor is any ornament introduced, but what is 
perfectly concordant with the general tone of melody. 
The events recorded, are all serious and grave ; the 
scenery throughout, wild and romantic. The extended 
heath by the seashore ; the mountains shaded with 
mist ; the torrent rushing through a solitary valley ; 
the scattered oaks, and the tombs of warriors over- 
grown with moss ; all produce a solemn attention iu 
the mind, and prepare it for great and extraordinary 
jvents. We find not in Ossian an imagination that 
sports itself, and dresses out gay trifles to please th-? 
fancy. His poetry, more perhaps than ihat of any 
other writer, deserves to be styled, The poetry of Z^'' 
keart. It is a heart penetrated with noble sentimenu* 
<nd with sublime and tender passions; a heart thf» 



108 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

glows, and kindles the fancy ; a heart that is full, and 
pours itself forth. Ossian did not write, like modern 
poets, to please readers and critics. He sung from the 
love of poetry and song. His delight was to think of 
the heroes among whom he had Nourished ; to recall 
the affecting incidents of his life ; to dwell upon his 
past wars, and loves, and friendships : till, as he ex- 
presses it himself, ^' there comes a voice to Ossian, 
and awakes his soul. It is the voice of years that are 
gone; they roll before me with all their deeds ;" and 
under this true poetic inspiration, giving vent to his 
genius, no wonder we should so often hear, and ac- 
knowledge, in his strains, the powerful and ever-pleas- 
ing voice of nature. 

Arte, natura potentior omni 

Est Deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illo. 

It is necessary here to observe, that the beauties of 
Ossian's writings cannot be felt by those who have 
given them only a single or hasty perusal. His man- 
ner is so different from that of the poets to whom we 
are most accustomed ; his style is so concise, and so 
much crowned with imagery ; the mind is kept at such 
a stretch in accompanying the author ; that an ordi- 
nary reader is at first apt to be dazzled and fatigued, 
rather than pleased. Flis poems require to be taken 
up at intervals, and to be frequently reviewed ; and 
then it is impossible but his beauties must open to every 
reader who is capable of sensibility. Those who have 
the highest degree of it will relish them the most. 

As Homer is, of all the great poets, the one whose 
manner, and whose times, come the nearest to Ossian's, 
we are naturally led to run a parallel in some instances 
between the Greek and Celtic bard. For though Homer 
lived more than a thousand years before Ossian, it is 
not from the age of the world, but from the state of 
society, that we are to judge of resembling times. The 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 109 

Greek has, in several points, a manifest superiority. 
He introduces a greater variety of incidents ; he pos- 
sesses a larger compass of ideas ; has more diversity 
in his characters ; and a much deeper knowledge of 
human nature. It was not to be expected, that in an^; 
of these particulars Ossian could equal Homer. For 
Homer lived in a country where society was much far- 
ther advanced ; he had beheld many more objects ; 
cities built and flourishing ; laws instituted ; order, dis- 
cipline, and arts, begun. His field of observation was 
much larger and more splendid : his knowledge, of 
course, more extensive ; his mind also, it shall be 
granted, more penetrating. But if Ossian's ideas and 
objects be less diversified than those of Homer, they 
arc ail, however, of the kind fittest for poetry : the bra- 
very and generosity of heroes, the tenderness of lovers, 
the attachment of friends, parents, and children. In a 
rude age and country, though the events that happen 
be few, the undissipated mind broods over them more ; 
they strike the imagination, and fire the passions, in a 
higher degree ; and. of consequence, become happier 
materials to a poetical genius, than the same events 
when scattered through the Vv'ide circle of more varied 
action and cultivated life. 

Horner is a more cheerful and sprightly poet than 
Ossian. You discern in him all the Greek vivacity ; 
whereas Ossian uniformly maintains the gravity and 
solemnity of a Celtic hero. This, too, is in a great 
measure to be accounted for from the different situa- 
tions in which they lived — partly personal, and partly 
national. Ossian had survived all his friends, and was 
disposed to melancholy by the incidents of his life. But, 
besides this, cheerfulness is one of the many blessings 
which we owe to formed society. The solitary, wild 
state, is always a serious one. Bating the sudden and 
violent bursts of mirth, which sometimes break forth at 
10 



110 CRITICAL DlSSEKTATio:\ 

their dances and feasts^ the savage Air.erican tribes 
have been noted by all travellers for their gravity and 
taciturnity. Somewhat of this taciturnity may be also 
remarked in Ossian. On all occasions he is frugal of 
his words ; and never gives you more of an image, or 
a description, than is jii'jt sufficient to place it before 
you in one clear point of view. It is a blaze of light- 
ning, which flashes and vanishes. Homer is more 
extended in his descriptions, and fdls them up with a 
greater variety of circumstances. Both the poets are 
dramatic ; that is, they introduce their personages fre- 
quently speaking before us. But Ossian is concise and 
rapid in his speeches, as he is in every other thing. 
Homer, with the Greek vivacity, had aho some portion 
of the Greek loquacity. His speeches, indeed, are 
highly characteristical ; and to them we are much in- 
debted for that admirable display he has given of human 
nature. Yet, if he be tedious any where, it is in these : 
some of them are trifling, and some of them plainly un- 
seasonable. Both poets are eminently sublime ; but a 
difference may be remarked in the species of their 
sublimity. Homer's sublimity is accompanied with 
more impetuosity and fire ; Ossian's with more of a 
solemn and awful grandeur. Homer hurries you along ; 
Ossian elevates, and fixes you in astonishment. Homer 
is most sublime in actions and battles ; Ossian in de- 
scription and sentiment. In the pathetic, Homer, when 
he chooses to exert it, has great power ; but Ossian 
exerts that power much oftener, and has the character 
of tenderness far more deeply imprinted on his works. 
No poet knew better how to seize and melt the heart. 
With regard to dignity of sentiment, the pre-eminence 
must clearly be given to Ossian. This is, indeed, a 
surprising circumstance, that in point of humanity, 
magnanimity, virtuous feelings of every kind, our rude 
Celtic bard should be distingj.iished to such a degree, 



O.N THE rUEiVlt, OL OStSiAN. Ill 

that not only the horoes of Homer, but even those of 
the polite and refined Yirgi], are left far behind by those 
of Ossian. 

After tliese general observations on the genius and 
spirit of our author, I nov/ proceed to a nearer view 
and more accurate examination of his works ; and as 
Fingal is the first great poem in this collection, it is 
proper to begin with it. To refuse the title of an epic 
poem to Fingal, because it is not, in every little partic- 
ular, exactly conformable to the practice of Homer 
and Virgil, were the mere squeamishness and pedantry 
of criticism. Examined even according to Aristotle's 
rules, it v/ill be found to have all the essential requisites 
of a true and regular epic ; and to have several of them 
in so high a degree, as at first view to raise our aston- 
ishment on finding Ossian's composition so agreeable 
to rules of v/hich lie v/as entirely ignorant. But our 
astonishment will cease, when we consider from what 
source Aristotle drew those rules. Homer knew no 
more of the lav/s of criticism than Ossian. But, guided 
by nature, he composed in verse a regular story, found- 
ed on heroic actions, which all posterity admired. 
Aristotle, with great sagacity and penetration, traced 
the causes of this general admiration. He observed 
what it was in Homer's composition, and in the con- 
duct of his story, which gave it such power to please ; 
from this observation he deduced the rules which poets 
ought to follow, v/ho would write and please like 
tlomcr ; and to a composition formed according to 
such rules, he gave the name of an epic poem. Hence 
his whole system arose. Aristotle studied nature in 
Homer. Homer and Ossian both wrote from nature. 
No wonder that among all the three, there should be 
such agreement and conformity. 

The fundamental rules delivered by Aristotle con- 
cerning an epic poem, are these : that the actioni which 



112 CRITICAL DISSERTATIOiN 

is the groundwork of the poem, should be one, com. 
plete, and great ; that it should be feigned, not merely 
historical ; that it should be enlivened with characters 
and manners, and heightened by the marvellous. 

But, before entering on any of these, it may perhaps 
be asked, what is the moral of Fingal ? For, according 
to M. Bossu, an epic poem is no other than an allegory 
contrived to illustrate some moral truth. The poet, 
says this critic, must begin with fixing on some maxim 
or instruction, which he intends to inculcate on man- 
kind. He next forms a fable, like one of jEsop's, 
wholly with a view to the moral ; and having thus set- 
tled and arranged his plan, he then looks into tradition- 
ary history for names and incidents, to give his fable 
some air of probability. Never did a more frigid, 
pedantic notion enter into the mind of a critic. We 
may safely pronounce, that he who should compose an 
epic poem after this manner, who should first lay down 
a moral and contrive a plan, before he had thought of 
his personages and actors, might deliver, indeed, very 
sound instruction, but would find very few rc-aders. 
There cannot be the least doubt that the first object 
which strikes an epic poet, which fires his genius, and 
gives him any idea of his work, is the action or subject 
he is to celebrate. Hardly is there any tale, any sub- 
ject, a poet can choose for such a work, but will afibrd 
some general moral instruction. An epic poem is, by 
its nature, one of the most moral of all poetical compo- 
sitions : but its moral tendency is by no means to be 
limited to some commonplace maxim, which may be 
gathered from the story. It arises from the admiration 
of heroic actions which such a composition is peculiarly 
calculated to produce ; from the virtuous emotions 
which the characters and incidents raise, whilst we 
read it ; from the happy impressions which all the parts 
separately, as well as the whole together, leave upon 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 113 

the mind. However, if a general moral be still insist- 
ed on, Fingal obviously furnishes one, not inferior to 
that of any other poet, viz : that wisdom and bravery 
always triumph over brutal force : or another, nobler 
still : that the most complete victory over an enemy is 
obtained by that moderation and generosity which con- 
vert him into a friend. 

The unity of the epic action, which of all Aristotle's 
rules, is the chief and most material, is so strictly pre- 
served in Fingal, that it must be perceived by every 
reader. It is a more complete unity than what arises 
from relating the actions of one man, which the Greek 
critic justly censures as imperfect : it is the unity of 
one enterprise — the deliverance of Ireland from the 
invasion of Swaran ; an enterprise which has surely 
the full heroic dignity. All the incidents recorded bear 
a constant reference to one end ; no double plot is car- 
ried on ; but the parts unite into a regular whole ; and 
as the action is one and great, so it is an entire or 
complete action. For we find, as the critic farther 
requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end ; a nodus, 
or intrigue, in the poem ; difficulties occurring through 
Cuthullin's rashness and bad success ; those difficulties 
gradually surmounted ; and at last, the work conduct- 
ed to that happy conclusion w|iich is held essential to 
epic poetry. Unity is, indeed, observed with greater 
exactness in Fingal, than in almost any other epic 
composition. For not only is unity of subject main- 
tained, but that of time and place also. The autumn 
is clearly pointed out as the season of the action ; and 
from beginning to end the scene is never shifted from 
the heath of Lena, along the seashore. The duration 
of the action in Fingal, is much shorter than in the 
Iliad or ^Eneid ; but sure there may be shorter as well 
longer heroic poems ; and if the authority of Aristotle 
be also required for this, he soys expre^slvj that the 
10* 



114 CIIITICAL DltiSERTATlON 

epic composition is indefinite as to the time of its dura- 
tion. Accordingly, the action of the Iliad lasts only 
forty-seven days, whilst that of the ^neid is continued 
for more than a year. 

Throughout the whole of Fingal, there reigns that 
grandeur of sentiment, style, and imagery, which ought 
ever to distinguish this high species of poetry. The 
story is conducted with no small art. The poet goes 
not back to a tedious recital of the beginning of the war 
with Swaran ; but hastening to the main action, he 
falls in exactly, by a most happy coincidence of thought, 
with the rule of Horace : 

Semper ad eventurn festinat, el in medias res, 

Non secus ac nolas, auditorera rapit — 

Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 

De Arte Poet. 

He invokes no muse, for he acknowledged none : 
but his occasional addresses to Malvina have a fmei 
effect than the invocation of any muse. He sets out 
with no formal proposition of his subject ; but the sub- 
ject naturally and easily unfolds itself; the poem open- 
ing in an animated manner, with the situation of Cu- 
thullin, and the arrival of a scout, who informs him of 
Svvaran's landing. Mention is presently made of Fin- 
gal, and of the expected assistance from the ships of 
the lonely isle, in order to give farther light to the sub- 
ject. For the poet often shows his address in gradually 
preparing us for the events he is to introduce ; and, in 
particular, the preparation for the appearance of Fin- 
gal, the previous expectations that are raised, and the 
extreme magnificence, fully answering these expecta- 
tions, with which the hero is at length presented to us, 
are all worked up with such skilful conduct as would 
do honor to any poet of the most refined times. Homer's 
art in magnifying the character of Achilles, has been 
universally adni'.red. Ossian certainly shows no less 



U.N IKK roii31S 01' ObiJlAN. 115 

di't in aggrandizing Fingal. Nothing could be more 
happily imagined lor this purpose tlian the whole man- 
agement of" the last battle, wherein Gaul, the son of 
Morni, had besought Fingal to retire, and to leave him 
and his other chiefs the honor of the day. The gene- 
rosity of the king in agreeing to this proposal ; the 
majesty with which he retreats to the hill, from whence 
he was to behold the engagement, attended by his 
bards, and waving the lightning of his sword; his per- 
ceiving the chiefs overpowered by numbers, but, frcm 
unwillingness to deprive them of the glory of victory 
by coming in person to their assistance, first sending 
Ullin, the bard, to animate their courage ; and at last, 
when the danger becom.es more pressing, his rising in 
his might, and interposing, like a divinity, to decide the 
doubtful fate of the day; are all circumstances con- 
trived with so much art. as plainly discover the Celtic 
bards t;j have been not unpractised in heroic poetry. 

The story which is the foundation of the Iliad, is in 
itSiif as simple as that of Fingal. A quarrel arises 
between Achilles and Agamemnon concerning a female 
slave ; on wliich Achilles, apprehending himself to be 
injured, witlidruws his assislanco from the rest of the 
Greeks. Tiie Greeks fall into great distress, and be- 
seech him to be rcconcilv d to tht m. He refuses to 
fight for them in person, but sends his friend Patrcclus ; 
and upon his being slain, goes forth to revenge his 
death, and kills Hector. The subject of Fingal is this : 
Swaran comes to invade Ireland : Cuthullin, the guar- 
dian of the young king, had applied for his assistance to 
Fingal, who ixigned in tlie opposite coast of Scotland. 
But before Fii gal's arj-ival, he is hurried by rash coun- 
sel to encounter Svv^aran. He is defeated ; he retreats, 
and desponds. Fingal arrives in iliis conjuncture. The 
battle is for some time dubious ; but in the end he con» 
qucrs vSwaran ; and the remembrance of Swnran's 



116 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

being the brother of Agandecca, who had once saved 
his life, makes him dismiss him honorably. Homer, it 
is true, has filled up his story with a much greater 
variety of particulars than Ossian ; and in this has 
shown a compass of invention superior to that of the 
other poet. But it must not be forgotten that though 
Homer be more circumstantial, his incidents, however, 
are less diversified in kind than those of Ossian. War 
and bloodshed reign throughout the Iliad ; and, not- 
withstanding all the fertility of Homer's invention, 
there is so much uniformity in his subjects, that there 
are few readers, v/ho, before the close, are not tired 
with perpetual fighting. Whereas in Ossian, the mind 
is relieved by a more agreeable diversity. There is a 
finer mixture of war and heroism, with love and friend- 
ship — of martial, with tender scenes, than is to be met 
with, perhaps, in any other poet. The episodes, too, 
have great propriety — as natural, and proper to th it 
age and country : consisting of the songs of b.irJ.i, 
which are known to have been the great entertainment 
of the Celtic heroes in war, as well as in peace. These 
songs are not introduced at random ; if you except the 
episode of Duchommar and Morna, in the first book, 
which, though beautiful, is more unartful than any of 
the rest, they havo always some particular relation to 
the actor who is interested, or to the events which are 
going on ; and, whilst they vary the scene, they pre- 
serve a sufficient connection with the main subject by 
the fitness and propriety of their introduction. 

As Fingal's love to Agandecca influences some cir- 
cumstances of the poem, particularly the honorable 
dismission of Swaran at the end ; it was necessary that 
we should be let into this part of the hero's story. But 
as it lay without the compass of the present action, it 
could be regularly introduced nowhere except in an 
f^.pisode. Accordingly, the poet, with as much pro* 



UxN THK rOEMS OF OSSlAN. 117 

priety as if Aristotle himself had directed the plan, has 
contrived an episode for this purpose in the song of 
Carril, at the beginning of the third book. 

The conclusion of the poem is strictly according to 
rule^, and is every way noble and pleasing. The re- 
conciliation of the contending heroes, the consolation 
of Cuthnllin, and the general felicity that crowns the 
action, soothe the mind in a very agreeable manner, 
and form that passage from agitation and trouble, to 
perfect quiet and repose, which critics require as the 
proper termination of the epic v/ork. " Thus they 
passed the night in song, and brought back the morn- 
ing with joy. Fingal arose on the heath ; and shook 
his glittering spear in his hand. He moved first to- 
wards the plains of Lena ; and we follovv^ed like a 
ridge of fire. Spread the sail, said the king of Morven, 
and catch the winds that pour from Lena. We rose 
on the waves with songs ; and rushed with joy through 
the foam of the ocean." So much for the unity and 
general conduct of the epic action in Fingal. 

With regard to that property of the subject which 
A-ristotle requires, that it should be feigned, not histor- 
ical, he must not be understood so strictly as if he 
meant to exclude all subjects v/hich have any founda- 
tion in truth. For such exclusion would both be un- 
reasonable in itself, and what is more, would be con- 



traiy to the practice of Homer, who is known to have 
founded his Iliad on historical facts concerning the war 
of Troy, which was famous throughout all Greece. 
Aristotle means no more than that it is the business 
of a poet not to be a mere annalist of facts, but to em- 
bellish truth with beautiful, probable, and useful fic- 
tions ; to copy nature as he himself explains it, like 
painters, who preserve a likeness, but exhibit their 
objects more grand and beautiful than they are in 
reality. That Ossian has followed this course, and 



118 CRrilCi\L DISSERTATION* 

building upon true history, has sufficiently adorned i» 
with poetical fiction for aggrandizing his characters 
and facts, will not, I helieve, be questioned by most 
readers. At the same time, the foundation which those 
facts and characters had in truth, and ihe share which 
the poet had himself in the transactions which he re- 
cords, must be considered as no small advantage to hia 
work. For truth makes an impression on the mind far 
beyond any fiction ; and no man, let his imagination 
be ever so strong, relates any events so feelingly as 
those in which he has been interested ; paints any 
scene so naturally as one which he has seen ; or draws 
any characters in such strong colors as those which he 
lias personally known. It is considered as an advan- 
tage of the epic subject to be taken from a period so 
distant, as, by being involved in the darkness of tradi- 
tion, may give license to fable. Though Ossian's sub- 
ject may at first view a[)pear unfavorable in this 
respect, as being taken from his own times, yet, when 
wc reflect that he lived to an extreme old age ; that 
he relates what had been transacted in another coun- 
try, at the distance of many years, and after all that 
race of men who had been the actors were gone oflf 
the stage ; we shall find the objection in a great meas- 
ure obviated. In so rude an age, wlien no written 
records were known, when tradition was loose, and 
accuracy of any kind little attended to, what was great 
and heroic in one generation, easily ripened into the 
marvellous in the next. 

The natural representation of human character in 
an epic poem is highly essential to its merit ; and, in 
res])ect of this, there can be no doubt of Homer's ex- 
celling all the heroic poets who have ever wrote. But 
though Ossian be much inferior to Homer in this arti- 
cle, he will be found to be equal a'i least, if nv^t supe- 
rior to Virgil ; and has, indeed, given all the display 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 119 

of Immaii nature, which the simple occurrences of his 
times could be expected to furnish. No dead uniform- 
ity of character prevails in Fingal ; but, on the con- 
trary, the principal characters are not only clearly dis- 
tinguished, but sometimes artfully contrasted, so as to 
illustrate each other. Ossian's heroes are like Homer's, 
all brave ; but their bravery, like those of Homer's 
too, is of difTcrcnt kinds. For instance : the prudent, 
the sedate, the modest and circumspect Connal, is fine- 
ly opposed to the presumptuous, rash, overbearing, but 
gallant and generous Calmar, Cahnar hurries Cu- 
thullin into action by his temerity ; and when he sees 
the bad effects of his counsels, he will not survive the 
disgrace. Connal, like another Ulysses, attends Cu- 
thuUin to liis retreat, counsels and comforts him under 
his misfortune. The fierce, the proud, and the high- 
spirited Swaran, is admirably contrasted with tlie calm, 
the moderate, and generous Fingal. The character 
of Oscar is a favorite one throughout the whole poems. 
The amiable warmth of the young warrior ; his eager 
impetuosity in the day of action ; his passion for 
fame ; his submission to his father ; his tenderness for 
Malvina; are the strokes of a masterly pencil: the 
strokes are few ; but it is the hand of nature, and 
attracts the heart. Ossian's own character, the old 
man, the hero, and the bard, uU in one, presents to us, 
through tlie whole work, a most respectable and vener- 
able figure, which we always contemplate with pleasure. 
CuthuUin is a hero of the highest class : daring, mag- 
nanimous, and exquisitely sensible to honor. We 
become attached to his interest, and are deeply touch- 
ed with his distress ; and after the admiration raised 
for him in the first part of the poem, it is a strong 
proof of Ossian's masterly genius, that he durst adven- 
ture to produce to us another hero, compared whh 
whom, even the ^roat nurhullin should be only an in- 



\W CHITICAL niSSF.nTATIOX 

ferior personage ; and who should rLse as far above 
him, as CuthuUin rises above the rest. 

Here, indeed, in the character and description of 
Fingal, Ossian triumphs ahiiost unrivalled ; for we 
may boldly defy all antiquity to show us any hero 
equal to Fingal. Homer's Hector possesses several 
great and amiable qualities ; but Hector is a secondary- 
personage in the Iliad, not the hero of the work. We 
see him only occasionally ; we know much less of him 
than we do of Fingal ; who, not only in this epic poem, 
but in Temora. and throughout the rest of Ossian's 
works, is presented in all that variety of lights, which 
give the full display of a character. And though Hector 
faithfully discharges his duty to his country, his friends, 
and his family, he is tinctured, however, with a degree 
of the same savage ferocity which prevails among all 
the Homeric heroes : for v.'c find him insulting over 
the fallen Patroclus whh the most cruel taunts, and 
telling him, when he lies in the agonies of death, that 
Achilles cannot help him now; and that in a short 
time his body, strip}">ed naked, and deprived of funeral 
honors, shall be devoured by the vultures. Whereas, 
in the character of Fingal, concur almost all the quali- 
ties that can ennoble human nature ; that can either 
make us admire the hero, or love the man. He is not 
only unconquerable in war, but he makes his people 
happy by his wisdom in the days of peace. He is 
truly the father of his people. He is known by the 
epithet of " Fingal of the mildest look ;" and distin- 
guished on every occasion by humanity and generosity. 
He is merciful to his foes ; full of affection to his chil- 
dren ; full of concern about his friends ; and never 
mentions Agandecca, his first love, without the utmost 
tenderness. He is the universal protector of the dis- 
tressed; "None ever went sad from Fingal." — " O, 
Oscar ! bend the strong in arms ; but spare the feeble 



ON THE FOEMS OF OSSIAK. 121 

hand. Be thou a stream of mighty tides against the 
foes of thy people ; but like the gale that moves the 
grass to those who ask thine aid. So Trenmor lived ; 
such Trathal was ; and such has Fingal been. My 
arm was the support of the injured ; the weak rested 
behind the lightning of my steel." These were the 
maxims of true heroism, to which he formed his grand- 
son. His fame is represented as everywhere spread ; 
the greatest heroes acknowledge his superiority ; his 
enemies tremble at his name ; and the highest enco- 
mium that can be bestowed on one whom the poets would 
most exalt, is to say, that his soul was like the soul of 
Fingal. 

To do justice to the poet's merit, in supporting suc^h 
a character as this, I must observe, what is not com- 
monly attended to, that there is no part of poetical 
execution more difficult, than to draw a perfect char- 
acter in such a manner as to render it distinct, and 
affecting to the mind. Some strokes of human imper- 
fection and frailty, are what usually give us the most 
clear view, and the most sensible impression of a char- 
acter ; because they present to us a man, such as we 
have seen : they recall known features of human 
nature. When poets attempt to go beyond this range, 
and describe a faultless hero, they for the most part set 
before us a sort of vague, undistinguishable character, 
such as the imagination cannot lay hold of, or realize 
to itself as the object of affection. We know how 
much Virgil has failed in this particular. His perfect 
hero, iEneas, is an unanimated, insipid personage, 
whom we may pretend to admire, but whom no one 
can heartily love. But what Virgil has failed in, 
Ossian, to our astonishment, has successfully executed. 
His Fingal, though exhibited without any of the com- 
mon human failings, is, nevertheless, a real man ; a 
character which touches and interests every reader. 
11 



122 RiTlCAi, DISyEKTATION 

To this it has much contributed that the poet has rep- 
resented him as an old man ; and by this has gained 
the advantage of throwing around him a great many 
circumstances, peculiar to that age, which paint him to 
the fancy in a more distinct light. He is surrounded 
with his family ; he instructs his children in the prin- 
ciples of virtue ; he is narrative of his past exploits ; 
he is venerable with the gray locks of age ; he is fre 
quently disposed to moraUze, like an old man, on hu- 
man vanity, and the prospect of death. There is more 
art, at least more felicity, in this, than may at first be 
imagined. For youth and old age are the two states 
of human life, capable of being placed in the most pic- 
turesque lights. Middle age is more general and 
vague ; and has fewer circumstances peculiar to the 
idea of it. And when any object is in a situation that 
admits it to be rendered particular, and to be clothed 
with a variety of circumstances, it always stands out 
more clear and full of poetical description. 

Besides human personages, divine or supernatural 
agents are often introduced into epic poetry, forming 
what is called the machinery of it ; which most critics 
hold to be an essential part. The mnrvellous, it must 
be admitted, has always a great charm for the bulk of 
readers. It gratifies the imagination, and affords room 
for striking and sublime description. No wonder, 
therefore, that all poets should have a strong propensity 
towards it. But I must observe, that nothing is more 
difficult than to adjust properly the marvellous with the 
probable. If a poet sacrifice probability, and fill his 
work with extravagant supernatural scenes, he spreads 
o"er it an appearance of romance and childish fiction ; 
he transpoits his readers from this world into a fantas- 
tic visionary region ; and loses that weight and dignity 
which should reign in epic poetry. No work from 
which probability is altogether banished, can make a 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 123 

lasting or deep impression. Human actions and man- 
ners are always the most interesting objects which can 
be presented to a human mind. All machinery, there- 
fore, is faulty, which withdraws these too much from 
view, or obscures them under a cloud of incredible fic- 
tions. Besides being temperately employed, machinery 
ought always to have some foundation in popular belief. 
A poet is by no means at liberty to invent what system 
of the marvellous he pleases ; he must avail himself 
either of the religious faith, or the superstitious credu- 
lity of the country wherein he lives ; so as to give an 
air of probability to events which are most contrary to 
the common course of nature. 

In these respects, Ossian appears to me to have been 
remarkably happy. He has, indeed, followed the same 
course with Homer. For it is perfectly absurd to ima- 
gine, as some critics have done, that Homer's mythol- 
ogy was invented by him '' in consequence of profound 
reflection on the benefits it would yield to poetry." 
Homer was no such refining genius. He found the 
traditionary stories, on which he built his Iliad, min- 
gled with popular legends concerning the intervention 
of the gods ; and he adopted these because they amused 
the fancy. Ossian, in like manner, found the tales of 
his country full of ghosts and spirits ; it is likely he 
believed them himself ; and he introduced them, be- 
cause they gave his poems that solemn and marvellous 
cast which suited his genius. This was the only 
machinery he could employ with propriety ; because 
it was the only intervention of supernatural beings 
which agreed with the common belief of the country. 
It was happy ; because it did not interfere in the least 
with the proper display of human characters and ac- 
tions ; because it had less of the incredible than most 
other kinds of poetical machinery ; and because it 
served to diversify the scene, and to heighten the sub- 



124 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

ject by an awful grandeur, which is the great design 
of machinery. 

As Ossian's mythology is peculiar to himself, and 
makes a considerable figure in his other poems, as well 
as in Fin gal, it may be proper to make some observa- 
lions on it, independent of its subserviency to epic com- 
position. It turns, for the most part, on the appear- 
ances of departed spirits. These, consonantly to the 
notions of every rude age, are represented not as 
purely immaterial, but as thin airy forms, which can 
be visible or invisible at pleasure ; their voice is fee- 
i !o, their arm is weak; but they are endowed with 
knowledge more than human. In a separate state, 
they retain the same dispositions which animated them 
ill this life. They ride on the wind ; they bend their 
airy bows ; and pursue deer formed of clouds. The 
ghosts of departed bards continue to sing. The ghosts 
of departed heroes frequent the fields of their former 
fame. " They rest together in their caves, and talk 
of mortal men. Their songs are of other worlds. 
They come sometimes to the ear of rest, and raise their 
feeble voice." All this presents to us much the same 
set of ideas concerning spirits, as we find in the eleventh 
book of the Odyssey, where Ulysses visits the regions 
of the dead ; and in the twenty-third book of the Iliad, 
the ghost of Patroclus, after appearing to Achilles, van- 
ishes precisely like one of Ossian's, emitting a shrill, 
feeble cry, and melting away like smoke. 

But though Homer's and Ossian's ideas concerning 
ghosts were of the same nature, we cannot but observe, 
that Ossian's ghosts are drawn with much stronger and 
livelier colors than those of Homer. Ossian describes 
ghosts with all the particularity of one who had seen 
and conversed with them, and whose imagination was 
full of the impression they had left upon it. He calls 
up those awful and tremendous ideas which the 



ON THE POEMS OF ObiSIAN. 125 

Simulacra modis pallentia miris 

are fitted to raise in the human mind ; and which, in 
Shakspeare's style, " harrow up the soul." Crugal's 
ghost, in particular, in the beginning of the second 
book of Fingal, may vie with any appearance of this 
kind, described by any epic or tragic poet whatever. 
Most poets would have contented themselves with tell- 
ing us, that he resembled, in every particular, the liv- 
ing Crugal ; that his form and dress were the same, 
only his face more pale and sad ; and that he bore the 
mark of the wound by %hich he fell. But Ossian sets 
before our eyes a spirit from the invisible world, dis- 
tinguished by all those features which a strong, aston- 
ished imagination would give to a ghost. " A dark- 
red stream of fire comes down from the hill. Crugal 
sat upon the beam ; he that lately fell by the hand of 
Swaran, striving in the battle of heroes. His face is 
like the beam of the setting moon. His robes are of 
the cloud of the hill. His eyes are like two decaying 
flames. Dark is the wound of his breast. — The stars 
dim twinkled through his form ; and his voice was 
like the sound of a distant stream." The circum- 
stance of the stars being beheld " dim twinkling 
through his form," is wonderfully picturesque, and 
conveys the most lively impression of his thin and sha- 
dowy substance. The attitude in which he is afterward 
placed, and the speech put into his mouth, are full of 
that solegnn and awful sublimity, which suits the sub- 
ject. " Dim, and in tears he stood, and he stretched 
his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he raised his 
feeble voice, like the gale of the reedy Lego. — My 
ghost, O Connal ! is on my native hills ; but my corse 
is on the sands of Ulla. Thou shalt never talk with 
Crugal, or find his lone steps in the heath. I am light 
as the blast of Cromla ; and I move like the shadow 
of ipist. Connal, son of Colgar ! I see the dark cloud 



126 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

of death ; it hovers over the plains of Lena. The sons 
of green Erin shall fall. Remove from the field of 
ghosts. — Like the darkened moon, he retired in the 
midst of the whistling blast." 

Several other appearances of spirits might be point- 
ed out, as among the most sublime passages of Ossian's 
poetry. The circumstances of them are considerably 
diversified, and the scenery always suited to the occa- 
sion. " Oscar slowly ascends the hill. The meteors 
of night set on the heath before him. A distant tor- 
rent faintly roars. Unfrequ^t blasts rush through 
aged oaks. The half-enlightened moon sinks dim and 
red behind her hill. Feeble voices are heard on the 
heath. Oscar drew his sword — ." Nothing can pre- 
pare the fancy more happily for the awful scene that 
is to follow. " Trentnor came from his hill at the 
voice of his mighty son. A cloud, like the steed of 
the stranger, supported his airy limbs. His robe is 
of the mist of Lano, that brings death to the people. 
His sword is a green meteor, half extinguished. His 
face is without form, and dark. He sighed thrice over 
the hero ; and thrice the winds of the night roared 
around. Many were his words to Oscar. — He slowly 
vanished, like a mist that melts on the sunny hill." 
To appearances of this kind, we can find no parallel 
among the Greek or Roman poets. They bring to 
mind that noble description in the book of Job : " In 
thoughts from the vision of the night, when d^ep sleep 
falleth on men, fear came upon me, and trembhng; 
which made all my bones to shake. Then a spiril 
passed before my face : the hair of my flesh stood up 
It stood still : but I could not discern the form thereof. 
All image was before mine eyes. There was silence ; 
and I heard a voice — Shall mortal man be more just 
than God?" 

As Ossian's supernatural beings are described with 



OIx THE i'OEMS OF OSSIAN. 127 

a surprising force of imagination, so they are intro- 
duced with propriety. We have only three ghosts in 
Fingal : that of Crugal, which comes to warn the host 
of impending destruction, and to advise them to save 
themselves by retreat ; that of Evir-al!en, the spouse 
of Ossian, which calls on him to rise and rescue their 
son from danger ; and that of Agandecca, which, just 
before the last engagement with Swaran, moves Fingal 
to pity, by mourning for the approaching destruction 
of her kinsman and p<3opIe. In the other poems, ghosts 
rometimes appear, when invoked, to foretell futurity ; 
irequently, according to the notions of these times, 
J hey come as fcjrerunners of misfortune or death, to 
I hose whom they visit ; sometimes they inform their 
I fiends at a distance of their own death ; and some- 
times they are introduced to heighten the scenery on 
some great and solemn occasion. " A hundred oaks 
burn to the wind ; and faint light gleams over the 
heath. The ghosts of Ardven pass through the beam, 
and show their dim and distant forms. Comala is half 
unseen on her meteor ; and Ilidallan is sullen and 
dim." — " The awful faces of other times looked from 
(he clouds of Crona." — " Fercuth ! I saw the ghost of 
night. Silent he stood on that bank ; his robe of mist 
tiew on the wind. I could behold his tears. An aged 
man he seemed, and full of thought." 

The ghosts of sti'angers mingle not with those of the 
natives. " She is seen : but not like the daughters of 
the hill. Her robes are from the strangers' land ; and 
she is still alone." When the ghost of one whom we 
bad formerly known is introduced, the propriety of the 
hving character is still preserved. This is remarkable 
in the appearance of Calmar's ghost, in the poem enti- 
tled, The death of Cuthullin. He seems to forebode 
CuthuUin's death, and to beckon him to his cave 
CnthuUin reproaches him fjr suppofdng that he couW 



128 C f; 1 TIC A L DU^.bKKTA TION 

be intimid'dtecl by such prognoolics. •' Why dost thou 
bend thy dark eyes on me, ghost of the car- borne 
Calmar ? Wouldst thou frighten me, O Matha's son ! 
from the battles of Cormac ? Thy hand was not feeble 
in war ; neither was thy voice for peace. How art 
thou changed, chief of Lara ! if thou now dost advise 
to Hy ! Retire thou to thy cave : thou art not Calmar's 
ghost ; he delighted in battle ; and his arm was like 
the thunder of heaven." Cahnar makes no return to 
this seeming reproach : but " he i-etired in his blast 
with joy ; for he had heard the voice of his })raise.'^ 
This is precisely the ghost of Achilles in Homer ; who, 
notv/ithstanding all the dissatisfaction he expresses 
with his state in the region of the dead, as soon as he 
had heard his son Ncoptolemus praised for his gallant 
behavior, strode away with silent jo}' to rejoin the rest 
of the shades. 

It is a great advantage of Ossian's n)ytho]ogy, that 
it is not local and temporary, like that of most other 
ancient poets ; which of course is apt to seem ridicu- 
lous, after the superstitions have passed away on which 
it is founded. Ossian's mythology is, to speak so, the 
mythology of human natm'c ; for it is founded on v/hat 
has been the popular belief, in all ages and countries, 
and under all forms of religion, concerning the appear- 
ances of departed spirits. Homer's machinery is al- 
ways lively and amusing ; but far from being always 
supported with proper dignity. The indecent squabbles 
among his gods surely do no honor to epic poetry. 
Whereas Ossian's machinery has dignity upon all oc- 
casions. It is indeed a dignity of the dark and awfu) 
kind ; but this is proper ; because coincident with the 
strain and spirit of the poetry. A light and gay my- 
thology, like Homer's, would have been perfectly un- 
suitable to the subjects on which Ossian's genius was 
employed. But though his machinery be always sol. 



ON TH?: POEMS OF OSSIAN. 129 

emn, it is not, however, always dreary or dismal ; it 
is enlivened, as much as the subject would permit, by 
those pleasant and beautiful appearances, which ho 
sometimes introduces, of the spirits of tbo hill. These 
are gentle spirits : descending on sunbeams, fair mov- 
ing on the plain ; their forms white and bright ; their 
voices sweet ; and their visits to men propitious. The 
greatest praise that can be given to the beauty of a 
livijig woman, is to say, " She is fair as the ghost of 
the hill, when it moves in a sunbeam at noon, over the 
silence of Morven." " The hunter shall hear my voice 
from his booth. He shall fear, but love my voice. 
For sweet shall my voice be for my friends ; for pleas- 
ant were they to me." 

Besides ghosts, or the spirits of departed men, we 
find in Ossian some instances of other kinds of machin- 
ery. Spirits of a superior nature to ghosts are some- 
times alluded to, which have power to embroil the 
deep ; to call forth winds and storms, and pour them 
on the land of the stranger ; to overturn forests, and 
to send death among the people. We have prodigies 
too ; a shower of blood ; and when some disaster is 
befalling at a distance, the sound of death is heard on 
the strings of Ossian's harp : all perfectly consonant, 
not only to the peculiar ideas of northern nations, but 
to the general current of a superstitious imagination in 
all countries. The description of Fingal's airy hall, 
in the poem called Errathon, and of the ascent of Mal- 
vina into it, deserves particular notice, as remarkably 
noble and magnificent. But, above all, the engage- 
ment of Fingal with the spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura, 
cannot be mentioned without admiration. I forbear 
transcribing the passage, as it must have drawn the 
attention of every one who has read the works of Os- 
sian. The undaunted courage of Fingal, opposed to 
all the terrors of the Scandinavian god ; the appear- 



130 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

ance and the speech of that awful spirit ; the wound 
which he receives, and the shriek which he sends forth, 
" as, rolled into himself, he rose upon the wind ;" are 
full of the most amazing and terrible majesty. I know 
no passage more sublime in the writings of any unin- 
spired author. The fiction is calculated to aggrandize 
the hero ; which it does to a high degree : nor is it so 
unnatural or wild a fiction as might at first be thought. 
According to the notions of those times, supernatural 
beings were material, and, consequently, vulnerable. 
The spirit of Loda was not acknowledged as a deity 
by Fingal ; he did not worship at the stone of his 
power ; he plainly considered him as the god of his 
enemies only ; as a local deity, whose dominion ex- 
tended no farther than to the regions where he was 
worshipped ; who had, therefore, no title to threaten 
him, and no claim to his submission. We know there 
are poetical precedents of great authority, for fictions 
fully as extravagant; and if Homer be forgiven for 
making Diomed attack and wound in battle the gods 
whom that chief himself worshipped, Ossian surely is 
pardonable for making his hero superior to the god of 
a foreign territory. 

Notwithstanding the poetical advantages which I 
have ascribed to Ossian's machinery, I acknowledge it 
would have been much more beautiful and perfect had 
the author discovered some knowledge of a Supreme 
Being. Although his silence on this head has been 
accounted for by the learned and ingenious translator 
in a very probable manner, yet still it must be held a 
considerable disadvantage to the poetry. For the most 
august and lofty ideas that can embellish poetry are 
derived from the belief of a divine administration of 
the universe ; and hence the invocation of a Supreme 
Being, or at least of some superior powers, who are 
conceived as presiding over human affairs, the solem- 



OiN THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 131 

nities of religious worship, prayers preferred, and as- 
sistance implored on critical occasions, ^pear with 
great dignity in the works of almost all poets, as chief 
ornaments of their compositions. The absence of all 
such religious ideas from Ossian's poetry is a sensible 
blank in it ; the more to be regretted, as we can easily 
imagine what an illustrious figure thay would have 
made under the management of such a genius as his ; 
and how finely they would have been adapted to many 
situations which occur in his works. 

After so particular an examination of Fingal, it were 
needless to enter into as full a discussion of the conduct 
of Temora, the other epic poem. Many of the same 
observations, especially with regard to the great char- 
acteristics of heroic poetry, apply to both. The high 
merit, however, of Temora, requires that we should 
not pass it by without some remarks. 

The scene of Temora, as of Fingal, is laid in Ire- 
land ; and the action is of a posterior date. The sub- 
ject is, an expedition of the hero to dethrone and pun- 
ish a bloody usurper, and to restore the possession of 
the kingdom to the posterity of the lawful prince : an 
undertaking worthy of the justice and heroism of the 
great Fingal. The action is one, and complete. The 
poem opens with the descent of Fingal on the coast, 
and the consultation held among the chiefs of the ene- 
my. The murder of the young prince Cormac, which 
was the cause of the war, being antecedent to the epic 
action, is introduced with great propriety as an episode 
in the first book. In the progress of the poem, three 
battles are (lescribed, which rise jn their importance 
above one another ; the success is various, and the 
issue for some time doubtful ; till at last, Fingal, 
brought into distress, by the wound of his great geneml 
Gaul, and the death of his son Fillan, assumes tiie 
command himself; and, having slain the Irish king 



132 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

in single combat, restores the rightful heir to bis 
throne. 

Temorft has perhaps less fire than the other epic 
poem ; but in return it has more variety, more tender- 
ness, and more magnificence. The reigning idea, so 
often presented to us, of " Fingal, in the last of his 
fields," is venerable and affecting ; nor could any more 
noble conclusion be thought of, than the aged hero, 
after so many successful achievements, taking his 
leave of battles, and, with all the solemnities of those 
times, resigning his spear to his son. The events are 
less crowded in Temora than in Fingal ; actions and 
characters are more particularly displayed : we are 
let into the transactions of both hosts, and informed of 
the adventures of the night as well as of the day. The 
still, pathetic, and the romantic scenery of several of 
the night adventures, so remarkably suited to Ossian's 
genius, occasion a fine diversity in the poem ; and are 
happily contrasted with the military operations of the 
day. 

In most of our author's poems, the horrors of war are 
softened by intermixed scenes of love and friendship. 
In Fingal these are introduced as episodes : in Temora 
we have an incident of this nature wrought into the 
body of the piece, in the adventure of Cathmor and 
Sulmalla. This forms one of the most conspicuous 
beauties of that poem. The distress of Sulmalla, dis- 
guised and unknown amongst strangers, her tend'er and 
anxious concern for the safety of Cathmor, her dream, 
and her melting remembrance of the land of her fa- 
thers ; Cathmor's emotion when he first discovers her, 
his struggles to conceal and suppress his passion, lest 
it should unman him in the midst of war, though " his 
soul poured forth in secret, when he beheld her fearful 
eye," and the last interview between them, when, over- 
come by her tenderness, he lets her know he had dis- 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 133 

covered her, and confesses his passion ; are all wroun;ht 
up with the most exquisite sensibility and delicacy. 

Besides the characters which appeared in Fingal, 
several new ones are here introduced ; and though, as 
they are all the characters of warriors, bravery is the 
predominant feature, they are nevertheless diversified 
in a sensible and striking manner. Foldath, for in- 
stance, the general of Cathmor, exhibits the perfect 
picture of a savage chieftain ; bold and daring, but 
presumptuous, cruel, and overbearing. He is distin- 
guished, on his first appearance, as the friend of the 
tyrant Cairbar, " His stride is haughty ; his red eye 
rolls in wrath." In his person and whole deportment 
he is contrasted with the mild and wise Hidalla, anoth- 
er leader of the same army, on whose humanity and 
gentleness he looks with great contempt. He profes- 
sedly delights in strife and blood. He insults over the 
fallen. He is imperious in his counsels, and factious 
when they are not followed. He is unrelenting in all 
his schemes of revenge, even to the length of denying 
the funeral song to tlie dead ; which, from the injury 
thereby done to their ghosts, was in those days con- 
sidered as the greatest barbarity. Fierce to the last, 
he comforts himself in his dying moments with think- 
ing that his ghost shall often leave its blast to rejoice 
over the graves of those he had -slain. Yet Ossian, 
ever prone to the patlietic, has contrived to throw into 
his account of the death, even of this man, some tender 
circumstances, by the moving description of his daugh- 
ter Dardulena, the last of his race. 

The character of Foldath tends much to exalt that 
of Cathmor, the chief commander, which is distin- 
guished by the most humane virtues. He abhors all 
fraud and cruelty, is famous for his hospitality to 
strangers ; open to every generous sentiment, and to 
every soft and compassionate feeling. He is so annia- 
12 



134 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

ble as to divide the reader's attachment between him 
and the hero of the poem ; though our author has art- 
fully managed it so as to make Cathmor himself indi- 
rectly acknowledge Fingal's superiority, and to appear 
somewliat apprehensive of the event, after the death 
of Fillan, which he knew would call forth Fingal in 
all his might. It is very remarkable, that although 
Ossian has introduced into his poems three complete 
heroes, CuthuUin, Cathmor, and Fingal, he has, how- 
ever, sensibly distinguished each of their characters ; 
CuthuUin is particularly honorable ; Cathmor particu- 
larly amiable ; Fingal wise and great, retaining an 
ascendant peculiar to himself in whatever light he is 
viewed. 

But the favorite figure in Temora, and the one most 
highly finished, is Fillan. His character is of that 
sort for which Ossian shows a particular fondness ; an 
eager, fervent, young warrior, fired with all the impa- 
tient enthusiasm for military glory peculiar to that 
time of life. He had sketched this in the description 
of his own son Oscar ; but as he has extended it more 
fully in Fillan, and as the character is so consonant to 
the epic strain, though, as far as I remember, nut 
placed in such a conspicuous light by any other epic 
poet, it may be worth while to attend a little to Ossian's 
management of it in this instance. 

Fillan was the youngest of all the sons of Fingal ; 
younger, it is plain, than his nephew Oscar, by whose 
fame and great deeds in war we may naturally suppose 
his ambition to have been highly stimulated. Withal, 
as he is younger, he is described as more rash and 
fiery. His first appearance is soon after Oscar'a 
death, when he was employed to watch the motions of 
the foe by night. In a conversation with his brother 
Ossian, on that occasion, we learn that it was not long 
since he began to lift the spear. " Few are the marks 



ON THE rOEMS OF OSSIA.N. 135 

of my sword in battle ; but my soul is fiie." He is 
with some difficulty restrained by Ossian from going 
to attack the enemy ; and complains to him, that his 
father had never allowed him any opportunity of sig- 
nalizing his valor. " The king hath not remarked my 
swoi'd ; I go forth with the crowd ; I return without 
my fame." Soon after, when Fingal, according to 
custom, was to appoint one of his chiefs to command 
the army, and each was standing forth, and putting in 
ais claim to this honor, Fillan is presented in the fol- 
lowing most picturesque and natural attitude : " On his 
spear stood the Son of Clatho, in the wandering of his 
locks. Thrice he raised his eyes to Fingal ; his voice 
thrice failed him as he spoke. Fillan could not boast 
of battles ; at once he strode away. Bent over a dis- 
tant stream he stood; the tear hung in his eye. He 
struck, at times, the thistle's head with his inverted 
spear."' No less natural and beautiful is the descrip- 
tion of Fingal's paternal emotion on this occasion. 
" Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beheld his 
son. He beheld him with bursting joy. He hid the 
big tear with his locks, and turned amidst his crowded 
soul." The command, for that day, being given to 
Gaul, Fillan rushes amidst the thickest of the foe, saves 
Gaul's life, who is wounded by a random arrow, and 
distinguishes himself so in battle, that '• the days of old 
return on Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown of 
his son. As the sun rejoices from the cloud, over the 
tree his beams have raised, whilst it shakes its lonely 
head on the heath, so joyful is the king over Fillan." 
Sedate, however, and wise, he mixes the praise which 
he bestows on him with some reprehension of his rash- 
ness. " My son, I saw thy deeds, and my soul was 
glad. Thou art brave, son of Clatho, but headlong in 
the strife. So did not Fingal advance, though he 
never feared a foe. Let thy people be a ridge behind 



136 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

thee ; they are thy strength in the field. Then shalt 
thou be long renowned, and behold the tombs of thy 
fathers." 

On the next day, the greatest and the last of Fillan^s 
life, the charge is committed to him of leading on the 
host to battle. Fingal's speech to his troops on this 
oci3asion is full of noble sentiment ; and, where he re- 
commends his son to their care, extremely touching. 
" A young beam is before you : few are his steps to 
war. They are few, but he is valiant ; defend my dark- 
haired son. Bring him back with joy ; hereafter he 
may stand alone. His form is like his fathers ; his 
soul is a flame of their fire." When the battle begins, 
the poet puts forth his strength to describe the exploits 
of the young hero ; who, at last encountering and kill- 
ing with his own hand Foldath, the opposite general, 
attains the pinnacle of glory. In what follows, when 
the fate of Fillan is drawn near, Ossian, if anywhere, 
excels himself. Foldath being slain, and a general 
rout begun, there was no resource left to the enemy 
but in the great Cathmore himself, who in this extremity 
descends from the hill, where, according to the custom 
of those princes, he surveyed the battle. Observe 
how this critical event is wrought up by the poet. 
" Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of 
Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hung forward on their 
steps, and strewed the heath with dead. Fingal re- 
joiced over his son. — Blue-shielded Cathmor rose. — 
Son of Alpin, bring the harp ! Give Fillan's praise 
to the wind : raise high his praise in my hall, while 
yet he shines in war. Leave, blue-eyed Clatho ! leave 
thy iiall ; behold that early beam of thine ! The host 
is withered in its course. No farther look — it is dark 
— light trembling from the harp, strike, virgins ! strike 
the sound." The sudden interruption and suspense of 
the narration on Cathmor's rising from his hill, the 



THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 137 

abrupt bursting into the praise of Fillan, and the pas- 
sionate apostrophe to his mother Clatho, are admirable 
efforts of poetical art, in order to interest us in Fillan's 
danger ; and the whole i?, heightened by the immediate 
following simile, one of the most magnificent and sub- 
lime that is to be met with in any poet, and which, if 
'it had been found in Homer, would have been the fre- 
quent subject of admiration to critics : " Fillan is like 
a spirit of heaven, that descends from the skirt of his 
blast. The troubled ocean feels his steps as he strides 
from wave to wave. His path kindles behind him ; 
islands shake their heads on the heaving seas." 

But the poet's art is not yet exhausted. The fall 
of this noble young warrior, or, in Ossian's style, the 
extinction of this beam of heaven, could not be ren- 
dered too interesting and affecting. Our attention is 
naturally drawn towards Fingal. He beholds from 
his hill the rising of Cathmor, and the danger of his 
son. But what shall he do ? " Shall Fingal rise to 
his aid, and take the sword of Luno ? What then 
shall become of thy fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho? 
Turn not thine eyes from Fingal, daughter of Inistore ! 
1 shall not quench thy early beam. No cloud of mine 
shall rise, my son, upon thy soul of fire." Struggling 
between concern for the fame, and fear for the safety 
of his son, he withdraws from the sight of the engage- 
ment, and despatches Ossian in ha.ste to the field, 
with this affectionate and delicate injunction : *' Father 
of Oscar !" addressing him by a title which on this 
occasion has the highest propriety : " Father of Oscar ! 
lift the spear, defend the young in arms. Butconceal 
thy steps from Fillan's eyes. He must not know that 
I doubt his steel." Ossian arrived too late. But un- 
willing to describe Fillan vanquished, the puet sup-> 
presses all the circumstances of the combat with Cath- 
mor : and onlv shows us the dvins hero. We «ee him 



138 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

animated to the end with the same martial and ardent 
spirit ; breathing his last in bitter regret for being so 
early cut off from the field of glory. " Ossian, lay 
me in that hollow rock. Raise no stone above me, 
lest one should ask about my fame. I am fallen in the 
first of my fields ; fallen without renown. Let thy 
voice alone send joy to my flying soul. Why should 
the bard know where dwells the early-fallen Fillan ?" 
He who, after tracing the circumstances of this story, 
shall deny that our bard is possessed of high sentiment 
and high art, must be strangely prejudiced indeed. 
Let him read the story of Pallas in Virgil, which is of 
a similar kind ; and after all the praise he may justly 
bestow on the elegant and finished description of that 
amiable author, let him say which of the two poets 
unfolds most of the human soul. I waive insisting 
on any more of the particulars in Temora ; as my 
aim is rather to lead the reader into the genius and 
spirit of Ossian's poetry, than to dwell on all his 
beauties. 

The judgment and art discovered in conducting 
works of such length as Fingal and Temora, distin. 
guish them from the other poems in this collection. 
The smaller pieces, however, contain particul:ir beau- 
ties, no less eminent. They are historical poems, 
generally of the elegiac kind ; and plainly discover 
themselves to be the work of the same author. Oiif; 
consistent face of manners is everywhere presented 
to us ; one spirit of poetry reigns ; the nmstcrly hand 
of Ossian appears throughout ; the same rapid and 
animated style ; the same strong coloring of imagina- 
tion, and the same glowing sensibility of heart. Be- 
sides the unity which belongs to the compositions of 
one man, there is moreover a certain unity of subject, 
which very happily connects all these poems. They 
form the poetical history of the nge of Fingal. The 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 139 

same race of heroes whom we had met with in the 
greater poems, Cuthulliii, Oscar, Connar, and Gaul, 
return again upon the stage ; and Fingal himself is 
always the principal figure, presented on every occa- 
sion, with equal magnificence, nay, rising upon us to 
the last. The circumstances of Ossian's old age and 
blindness, his surviving all his friends, and his relating 
their great exploits to Malvina, the spouse or mistress 
of his beloved son Oscar, furnish the finest poetical 
situations that fancy could devise for that tender pa- 
thetic which reigns in Ossian's poetry. 

On each of these poems there might be room for 
separate observations, with regard to the conduct and 
dispositions of the incidents, as well as to the beauty 
of the descriptions and sentiments. Cnrthon is a regu- 
lar and highhf finished piece. Tiie main story is very 
properly introduced by Clessamore's relation of the 
adventure of his youth ; and this introduction is finely 
heightened by Fingal's song of mourning over Moina ; 
in \', hich Ossian, ever fond of doing honor to his father, 
has contrived to distinguish him lor being an eminent 
poet, as well as warrior. Fingal's song upon this oc- 
casion, when " his thousand bards leaned forwards from 
• their seats, to hear the voice of the king," is inferior to 
no passage in the whole book : and with great judg- 
ment put in his mouth, as the seriousness, no less than 
the sublimity of the strain, is peculiarly suited to the 
hero's character. In Darthula are assembled almost 
all the tender images that can touch the heart of man , 
friendship, love, the aftections of parents, sons, and 
brothers, the distress of the aged, and the unavailing 
bravery of the young. The beautiful address to the 
moon, with which the poem opens, and the transitioR 
from the^ice to the subject, most happily prepare the 
mind for that train of affecting events that is to follow. 
The story is regrular, dramatic, interesting to the last. 



140 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

He who can read it without emotion may congratulate 
himself, if he pleases, upon being completely armed 
against sympathetic sorrow. As Fingal had no occa- 
sion of appearing in the action of this poem, Ossian 
makes a very artful transition from his narration, to 
what was passing in the halls of Selma. The sound 
heard there on the strings of his harp, the concern 
which Fingal shows on hearing it, and the invocation 
of the ghosts of their fathers, to receive the heroes fall- 
ing in a distant land, are introduced with great beauty 
of imagination to increase the solemnity, and to diver- 
sify the scenery of the poem. 

Carric-thura is full of the most sublime dignity ; and 
has this advantage, of being more cheerful in the sub- 
ject, and more happy in the catastrophe, than most of 
the other poems : though tempered at the same -time 
with episodes in that strain of tender melancholy which 
seems to have been the great delight of Ossian and tiie 
bards of his age. Lathmon is peculiarly distingui..hcd 
by high generosity of sentiment. This is carried so 
far, particularly in the refusal of Gaul, on one side, to 
take the advantage of a sleeping foe ; and of Lalhmon, 
on the other, to overpower by numbers the two young 
warriors, as to recall into one's mind the manners of 
chivalry; some resemblance to which may perhaps be 
suggested by other incidents in this collection of poems. 
Chivalry, however, took rise in an age and country too 
remote from those of Ossian, to admit the suspicion 
that the one could have borrowed any thing from the 
other. So far as chivalry had any real existence, the 
same military enthusiasm which gave birth to it in the 
feudal times, might, in the days of Ossian, that is, in 
the infancy of a rising state, through the operation of 
the same cause, very natui-ally produce effecte of the 
same kind on the minds and manners of men. So far 
as chivalry was an ideal system, existing only in ro- 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 141 

mance, it will not be thought surprising, when we reflect 
on the account before given of the Celtic bards, that 
this imaginary refinement of heroic manners should be 
fownd among them, as much, at least, as among the 
Troubadors, or strolling Provencal bards, in the 10th 
or 11th century ; whose songs, it is said, first gave 
rise to those romantic ideas of heroism, which for so 
long a time enchanted Europe. Ossian's heroes have 
all the gallantry and generosity of those fabulous 
knights, without their extravagance ; and his love 
scenes have native tenderness, without any mixture of 
those forced and unnatural conceits which abound in 
the old romances. The adventures related by our 
poet which resemble the most those of romance, con- 
cern women who follow their lovers to war disguised 
in the armor of men ; and these are so managed as 
to produce, in the discovery, several of the most inter- 
esting situations ; one beautiful instance of which may 
be seen in Carric-thura, and another in Calthon and 
Colmal. 

Oithona presents a situation of a different nature. 
In the absence of her lover Gaul, she had been carried 
ofl'and ravished by Dunrommath. Gaul discovers the 
place where she is kept concealed, and comes to 
revenge her. The meeting of the two lovers, the sen- 
timents and the behavior of Oithona on that occasion, 
are described with such tender and exquisite propriety, 
as does the greatest honor both to the heart and to the 
delicacy of our author; and would have been admired 
in any poet of the most refined age. The conduct of 
Croma must strike evei^y reader as remarkably judi- 
cious and beautiful. We are to be prepared for the 
death of Malvina, which is related in the succeeding 
poem. She is therefore introduced in person ; " she 
has heard a voice in her dream ; she feels the flutter- 
ing of her soul ;" and in a most moving lamentation 



142 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

addressed to her beloved Oscar, she sings her own 

dealh-song. Nothing could be calculated with more 

art to sooth and comfort her than the story which Os- 

sian relates. In the young and brave Fovargorrto, 

another Oscar is introduced : his praises are sung ; 

and the happiness is set before her of those who die in 

their youth "when their renown is around them ; before 

the feeble behold them in the hall, and smile at their 

trembling haiids." 

But nowhere does Ossian's genius appear to greater 

advantage, than in Berrathon, which is reckoned the 

conclusion of his songs, ' The last sound of the voice 

ofCona.' 

Qualis olor noto positunis littore vitam, 
Ingemit, et mcestis mulcens concentibus auras 
Praesago quaeritur venientia I'unera cantu. 

The whole train of ideas is admirably suited to the 
subject. Every thing is full of that invisible world, 
into which the aged bard believes himself now ready to 
enter. The airy hall of Fingal presents itself to his 
view ; " he sees the cloud that shall receive his ghost ; 
he beholds the mist that shall form his robe when he 
appears on his hill ;" and all the natural objects around 
him seem to carry the presages of death. "The thistle 
shakes its beard to the wind. The flower hangs its 
heavy head ; it seems to say, I am covered with the 
drops of heaven ; the time of my departure is near, 
and the blast that shall scatter my leaves." Malvina's 
death is hinted to him in the most delicate manner by 
the son of Alpin. His lamentation over her, her apo- 
theosis, or ascent to the habitation of heroes, and the 
introduction to the story which follows from the men 
tion which Ossian supposes the father of Malvina to 
make of him in the hall of Fingal, are all in the higher 
spirit of poetry. " And dost thou remember Ossian, O 
Toscar, son of Conloch 1 The battles of our youth 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 143 

were many; our swords went together to the field." 

Nothing could be more proper than to end his songs 
with recording an exploit of the father of that Malvina, 
of whom his heart was now so full ; and who, from first 
to last, had been such a favorite object throughout all 
his poems. 

The scene of most of Ossian's poems is laid in Scot- 
land, or in the coast of Ireland, opposite to the territo- 
ries of Fingal. When the scene is in Ireland, we per- 
ceive no change of manners from those of Ossian's 
native country. For as Ireland was undoubtedly peo- 
pled with Celtic tribes, the language, customs, and re- 
ligion of both nations were the same. They had been 
separated from one another by migration, only a few 
generations, as it should seem, before our poet's age ; 
and they still maintained a close and frequent inter- 
course. But when the poet relates the expeditions of 
any of his heroes to the Scandinavian coast, or to the 
islands of Orkney, which were then part of the Scan- 
dinavian territory, as he does in Carric-thura, Sul-malla 
of Lumon, and Cathloda, the case is quite altered. 
Those countries were inhabited by nations of the Teu- 
tonic descent, who, in their manners and rehgious rites, 
differed widely from the Celtaj ; and it is curious and 
remarkable, to find this difference clearly pointed out 
in the poems of Ossian. His descriptions bear the 
native marks of one who was present in the expeditions 
which he relates, and who describes what he had seen 
with his own eyes. No sooner are we carried to. 
Lochlin, or the klands of Inistore, than we perceive 
we are in a foreign region. New objects begin to ap- 
pear. We meet everywhere with the stones and cir- 
cles of Loda, that is, Odin, the great Scandinavian 
deity. We meet with the divinations and enchant- 
ments for which it is well known those northern na- 
tions were early famous. "There, mixed with the 



144 CEITICAL nSSERTATlON 

murmur of waters, rose the voice of aged men, who 
called the forms of night to aid them in their war ;" 
whilst the Caledonian chiefs^ who assisted them, are 
described as standing at a distance, heedless of their 
rites. That ferocity of manners which distinguished 
those nations, also becomes conspicuous. In the com- 
bats of their chiefs there is a peculiar savageness ; even 
their women are bloody and fierce. The spirit, and 
the very ideas of Regner Lodbrog, that northern scal- 
der, whom I formerly quoted, occur to us again. " The 
hawks," Ossian makes one of the Scandinavian chiefs 
say, " rush from all their winds ; they are wont to trace 
my course. We rejoiced three days above the dead, 
and called the hawks of heaven. They came from all 
their winds, to feast on the foes of Annir." 

Dismissing now the separate consideration of any 
of our author's works, I proceed to make some obser- 
vations on his manner of writing, under the general 
lieads of Description, Imagery, and Sentiment. 

A poet of original genius is always distinguished by 
his talent for description. A second-rate writer dis- 
cerns nothing new or peculiar in the object he means 
to describe. His conceptions of it are vague and loose ; 
his expressions feeble ; and of course the object is pre- 
sented to us indistinctly, and as through a cloud. But 
a true poet makes us imagine that we see it before our 
eyes ; he catches the distinguishing features ; he gives 
it the colors of life and reality ; he places it in such a 
light that a painter could copy after him. This happy- 
talent is chiefly owing to a lively imagination, which 
first receives a strong impression of the object ; and 
then, by a proper selection of capital picturesque cir- 
cumstances employed in describing it, transmits that 
impression in its full force to the imaginations of others. 
That Ossian possesses this descriptive power in a high 
degree, we have a clear proof, from the effect which 



OiN THE rOEx^lS OF OSSIAN. 145 

his descriptions produce upon the imaginations of those 
who read him with any degree of attention, or taste. 
Few poets are more interesting. We contract an inti- 
mate acquaintance with his principal heroes. The 
characters, the manners, the face of the country, be- 
come familiar; we even think we could draw the 
figure of his ghost% In a word, whilst reading him we 
are transported as into a new region, and dwell among 
his objects as if they were all real. 

It were easy to point out several instances of ex- 
quisite painting in the works of our author. Such, for 
instance, is the scenery with which Temora opens, and 
the attitude in which Cairbar is there presented to us ; 
the description of the young prince Cormac, in the 
same book ; and the ruins of Balclutha, in Cartho. 
" I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were 
desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls : and 
the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream 
of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the 
walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head ; the 
moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from 
the windows ; the rank grass of the wall waved round 
his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina ; silence 
is in the house of her fathers." Nothing also can be 
more natural and lively than the manner in which 
Carthon afterward describes how the conflagration of 
his city affected him when a child : " Have I not seen 
the fallen Balclutha ? And shall I feast with Comhal's 
son ? Comhal ! who threw his fire in the midst of my 
father's hall ! I was young, and knew not the cause 
why the virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased 
mine eye, when they arose above my wajls : I often 
looked back with gladness, when my friends fled above 
the hill. But when the years of my youth came on, I 
belield the moss of my fallen walls. My sigh arose 
with the morning ; and my tears descended with night. 
13 



146 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

Shall I not fight, I said to my soul, against the children 
of my foes ? And 1 will fight, O bard ! I feel the 
strength of my soul." In the same poem, the assem- 
bling of the chiefs round Fingal, who had been warned 
of some impending danger by the appearance of a 
prodigy, is described with so many picturesque circum- 
stances, that one imagines himself present in the as- 
sembly. " The king alone beheld the terrible sight, 
and he foresaw the death of his people. He came in 
silence to his hall, and took his father's spear : the 
mail rattled on his breast. The heroes rose around. 
They looked in silence on each other, marking the 
eyes of Fingal. They saw the battle in his face. A 
thousand shields are placed at once on their arms; 
and they drew a thousand swords. The hall of Selma 
brightened around. The clang of arms ascends. The 
gray dogs howl in their place. No word is among the 
mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes of the king j 
and half assumed his spear." 

It has been objected to Ossian, that his descriptions 
of military actions are imperfect, and much less diver- 
sified by the circumstances than those of Homer. This 
is in some measure true. The amazing fertility of 
Homer's invention, is nowhere so much displayed as 
In the incidents of his battles, and in the little history 
pieces he gives of the persons slain. Nor, indeed, with 
regard to the talent of description, can too much be 
said in praise of Homer. Every thing is alive in his 
writings. The colors with which he paints are those 
of nature. But Ossian's genius was of a different 
kind from Homer's. It led him to hurry towards grand 
objects, rather than to amuse himself with particulars 
of less importance. He could dwell on the death of a 
favorite hero ; but that of a private man seldom stopped 
his rapid course. Homer's genius was more compre- 
hensive than Ossian's. It included a wider circle of 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 147 

objects ; and could work up any incident into descrip- 
tion. Ossian's was more limited ; but the region 
within which it chiefly exerted itself was the highest 
of all, the region of the pathetic and the sublime. 

We must not imagine, however, that Ossian's battles 
consist only of general indistinct description. Such 
beautiful incidents are sometimes introduced, and the 
circumstances of the persons slain so much diversified, 
as show that he could have embellished his military 
scenes with an abundant variety of particulars, if his 
genius had led him to dwell upon them. " One man 
is stretched in the dust of his native land; he fell, 
where often he had spread the feast, and often raised 
the voice of the harp," The maid of Inistoro is intro- 
duced in a moving apostrophe, as weeping for another; 
and a third, "as rolled in the dust he lifted his faint 
eyes to the king," is remembered and mourned by 
Fingal as the friend of Agandecca. The blood pour- 
ing from the wound of one who was slain by night, is 
heard " hissing on the half-extinguished oak," which 
had been kindled for giving light. Another climbling 
up a tree to escape from his foe, is pierced by his spear 
from behind : shrieking, panting he fell; whilst moss 
and withered branches pursue his fall, and strew the 
blue arms of Gaul. Never was a finer picture drawn 
of the ardor of two youthful warriors than the follow- 
ing : " I saw Gaul in his armor, and my soul was 
mixed with his ; for the fire of the battle was in his 
eyes ; he looked to the foe with joy. We spoke the 
words of friendship in secret ; and the lightning of our 
swords poured together. We drew them behind the 
wood, and tried the strength of our arms on the empty 
air." 

Ossian is always concise in his descriptions, whicn 
adds m^xh to their beauty and force. For it is a greai 
mistake to imagine, that a crowd of particulars, or a 



148 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

very full and extended style, is of advantage to descrip- 
tion. On the contrary, such a diffuse manner for the 
most part weakens it. Any one redundant circumstance 
is a nuisance. It encumbers and loads the fancy, and 
renders the main image indistinct. " Obstat," as 
Quintilian says with regard to style, " quicquid non ad- 
juvat." To be concise in description,, is one thing: 
and to be general, is another. No description that rests 
in generals can possibly be good ; it can convey no 
lively idea ; for it is of particulars only that we have a 
distinct conception. But, at the same time, no strong 
imagination dwells long upon any one particular ; or 
heaps together a mass of trivial ones. By the happ)/ 
choice of some one, or of a fev/ th-at arc the most 
striking, it presents the image more complete, shows- 
us more at one glance than a feeble imagination is able 
to do, by turning its object round and round into a; 
variety of lights. Tacitus is of all prose v/riters the 
most concise. He has even a degree of abruptness 
resembling our author : yet no writer is more eminent 
for lively description. When Fingal, after having 
conquered the haughty Swaran, proposes to dismiss 
him with honor: " Raise to-morrov/ thy white sails to 
the wind, thou brother of Agandcccal" he conveys, by 
thus addressing his enemy, a stronger impression of 
the emotions then passing within his mind, than if 
whole paragraphs had been spent in describing the 
conflict between resentment against Swaran and the 
tender remembrance of his ancient love. No amplifi- 
cation is needed to give us the most full idea of a hardy 
veteran, after the few following words : " His shield is 
marked with the strokes of battle ; his red eye de- 
spises danger." When Oscar, left alone, was sur- 
rounded by foes, " he stood," it is said, " growing in 
his place, like the flood of the narrow vale ;" a happy 
representation of one, who, by daring intrepidity in 



ON THE POiiMS OF OSSIAN. 149 

the midst of danger, seems to increase in his appear- 
ance, and becomes more formidable every moment, 
like the sudden rising of the torrent hemmed in by the 
Falley. And a whole crowd of ideas, concerning the 
circumstances of domestic sorrow, occasioned by a 
young v/arrior's first going tbrth to battle, is poured 
upon the^ mind by these words : " Calmar leaned on his 
father's spear ; that spear which he brought from 
Lara's hall, when the soul of his mother was sad." 

The conciseness of Ossian's descriptions is the more 
proper, on account of his subjects. Descriptions of gay 
and smiling scenes may, v/ithout any disadvantage, be 
amplified and prolonged. Force is not the predomi- 
nant quality expected in these. The description may 
be weakened by being diffuse, yet, notwithstanding, 
rnay be beautiful still ; Avliereas, with respect to grand, 
solemn, and pathetic subjects, which are Ossian's chief 
field, the case is very different. In these, energy is 
above all things required. The imagination must be 
seized at once, or not at all; and is far more deeply 
impressed by one strong and ardent image, than by 
the anxious minuteness of labored illustration. 

But Ossian's genius, though chiefly turned towards 
the sublime and pathetic, was not confined to it. In 
subjects also of grace and delicacy, he discovers the 
hand of a master. Take for an example the following 
elegant description of Agandecca, wherein the tender- 
ness of Tibullus seems united with the majesty of 
Virgil. "The daughter of the snow overheard, and 
left the hall of her secret sigh. She came in all her 
beauty ; like the moon from the cloud of the east. 
Loveliness was around her as light. Her steps were 
like the music of songs. She saw the youth and loved 
him. He was the stolen sigh of her soul. Her blue 
eyes rolled on him in secret; and she blest the chief 
of Morven." Several other instances might be pro- 
18+ 



150 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

duced of the feelings of love and friendship, painted 
by our author with a most natural and happy deli- 
cacy. 

The simplicity of Ossian's manner adds great beauty 
to his descriptions, and indeed to his whole poetry. 
We meet with no affected ornaments ; no forced re- 
finement ; no marks either in style or thought of a 
.studied endeavor to shine or sparkle. Ossian appears 
everywhere to be prompted by his feelings ; and to 
speak from the abundance of his heart. I remember 
no more than one instance of what may be called a 
quaint thought in this whole collectiou of his works. 
It is in the first book of Fingal, where, from the tombs 
of two lovers, two lonely yews arc mentioned to have 
sprung, "whose branches wished to meet on high." 
This sympathy of the trees with the lovers, may be 
reckoned to border on an Italian conceit ; and it is 
somewhat curious to find this single instance of that 
sort of wit in our Celtic poetry. 

" The joy of grief" is one of Ossian^s remarkable 
expressions, several times repeated. If any one shall 
think that it needs to be justified by a precedent, he 
may find it twice used by Homer : in the Iliad, when 
Achilles is visited by the ghost of Patroclus; and in 
the Odyssey, when Ulysses meets his mother in the 
shades. On both these occasions, the heroes, melted 
with tenderness, lament their not having it in their 
power to throw their arms round the ghost, " that we 
might," say they, "in mutal embrace, enjoy the delight 
of grief." 

KpvEpolo TorapnioixtaOa ydoto. 

But, in truth, the expression stands in need of no 
defence from authority ; for it is a natural and just ex- 
pression ; and conveys a clear idea of that gratification 
which a virtuous heart often feels in the indulgence of 



01 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 151 

a tender melaiK.holy. Ossian makes a very proper 
distinction betwe en this gratification and the destructive 
effect of overpowering grief. '• There is a joy in grief 
when peace dwells in the breasts of the sad. But sor- 
row wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar, and 
their days are few." To '-give the joy of grief," gen- 
erally signifies, to raise the strain of soft and grave 
music; and finely characterizes the taste of Ossian's 
age and count ly. In those days, when the songs of 
bards were the great delight of heroes, the tragic muse 
was held in chief honor : gallant actions and virtuous 
suficrings, were the chosen theme ; preferably to that 
light and trifling strain of poetry and music, which 
promotes liglit and trifling manners, and serves to 
emasculate the mind. " Strike the harp in my hall," 
said the great Fingal, in the midst of youth and victo- 
ry ; " strike the harp in my hall, and let Fingal hear 
the song. Pleasant is the joy of grief! It is like the 
shov/er of spring, when it softens the branch of the 
oak ; and the young leaf lifts its green head. Sing on, 
O bards ! To-morrov/ we lift the sail." 

Personal epithets have been much used by all the 
poets of the most ancient ages ; and when well chosen, 
not general and unmeaning, they contribute not a little 
to render the style descriptive and animated. Besides 
epithets founded on bodily distinctions, akin to many 
of Homer's, we find in Ossian several which are re- 
m'lrkably beautiful and poetical. Such as Oscar of 
the future fights, Fingal of the mildest look, Carril of 
other times, the mildly blushing Evir-allin : Bragela, 
the lonely sun-beam of Dunscaich ; a Culdee, the son 
of the secret cell. 

But of all the ornaments employed in descriptive 
poetry, comparisons or similes are the most splendid. 
These chiefly form what is called the imagery of a 
poem ; and as they abound so much in the works of 



152 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

Ossian, and are commooly among the favorite passages 
of all poets, it may be cj-pccted that I should be some- 
what particular in my rci.iarks upon them. 

A poetical simile always, supposes two objects brought 
together, between which Cacvo is some near relation or 
connection in tlie fancy. What that relation ought to 
be, cannot be precisely de%i£d. For various, almost 
numberless, are the analogic 9 formed among objects, 
by a sprightly imagination. The relation of actual 
similitude, or likeness of app-pMunco, is far from being 
the only foundation of poetlcil comparison. Some- 
times a resemblance in the efllct produced by two ob* 
jects, is made the coimecting priiiciple : sometimes a 
resemblance in one distinguishing proj^erty or circum- 
stance. Very often two objects a':e brought together 
in a simile, though they resemblc> ovie another, strictly 
speaking, in nothing, only becau;'e ihey raise in the 
mind a train of similar, and what lirv} bo called con- 
cordant, ideas ; so that the rememb;arce of the onCj 
when recalled, serves to quicken and bel^zh-ea the im- 
pression made by the other. Thus, to give ai: instance 
from our poet, the pleasure with which an cM man 
looks back on the exploits of tiis youth, has cer'ainly 
no direct resemblance to the beauty of a fine evening ; 
farther than that both agree in producing a certain 
calm, placid joy. Yet Ossian has founded upon this, 
one of the most beautiful comparisons that is to be met 
with in any poet. " Wilt thou not listen, son of the 
rock, to the song of Ossian? My soul is full of othei 
times ; the joy of my youth returns. Thus the sur 
appears in the west, after the steps of his brightnes? 
have moved behind a storm. The green hills lift theii 
dewy heads. Tiie blue streams rejoice in the vale. 
The aged hero comes forth on his staff; and his gray 
hair glitters in the beam." Never was there a finer 
group of objects. It raises a strong conception of th« 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 153 

old maivs joy and elation of lieart, by displaying a 
scene which produces in every spectator a correspond- 
ing train of pleasing emotions ; the declining sun look- 
ing forth in his brightness after a storm ; the cheerful 
face of all nature ; and the still life finely animated by 
the circumstance of the aged hero, with his staff and 
his gray locks : a circumstance both extremely pic- 
turesque in itself, and peculiarly suited to the main 
object of the comparison. Such analogies and associ- 
ations of ideas as these, are highly pleasing to the fan- 
cy. They give opportunity for introducing many a 
fine poetical picture. They diversify the scene ; they 
aggrandize the subject ; they keep the imagination 
awake and sprightly. For as the judgment is princi- 
pally exercised in distinguishing objects, and remarking 
the differences among those which seem alike, so the 
highest amusement of the imagination is to trace like- 
nesr^cs and agreements among those which seem differ- 
ent. 

The principal rules which respect poetical compari- 
sons are, that they be introduced on proper occasions, 
v/hen the mind is disposed to relish them; and not in 
the midst of some severe and agitating passion, which 
cannot admit this play of fancy ; that they be founded 
on a resemblance neither too near and obvious, so as 
to give little amusement to the imagination in tracing 
it, nor too faint and remote, so as to be apprehended 
with difficulty ; that they serve either to illustrate the 
principal object, and to render the conception of it 
more clear and distinct ; or, at least, to heighten and 
embellish it, by a suitable association of images. 

Every country has a scenery peculiar to itself; and 
the imagery of a good poet will exhibit it. For as he 
copies after nature, his allusions will of course be taken 
from those objects which he sees around him, and 
which have often struck his fancy. For this reason, 



154 CRITICAL DISSERTATIO?f 

in order to judge of the propriety of poetical imageiy, 
we ought to be in some measure acquainted with the 
natural history of the country where the scene of the 
poem is laid. The introduction of foreign images be- 
trays a poet, copying not from nature, but from other 
writers. Hence so many lions, and tigers, and eagles, 
and serpents, which we meet with in the similes of 
modern poets ; as if these animals had acquired some 
right to a place in poetical comparisons for ever, be- 
cause employed by ancient authors. They employed 
them with propriety, as objects generally known in 
their country, but they are absurdly used for illustra- 
tion by us, who know ihem only at second hand, or by 
description. To most readers of modern poetry, it 
were more to the purpose to describe lions or tigers 
by similes taken from men, than to compare men to 
lions. Ossian is very correct in this particular. His 
imagery is, without exception, copied from that face 
of nature which he saw before his eyes ; and by con- 
sequence may be expected to be lively. We meet 
with no Grecian or Italian scenery ; but with the 
mists and clouds, and storms, of a northern mountain- 
ous region. 

No poet abounds more in similes than Ossian. 
There are in this collection as many, at least, as in 
the whole Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. I am indeed 
inclined to think, that the works of both poets are too 
much crowded with them. Similes are sparkling or- 
naments ; and, like all things that sparkle, are apt to 
dazzle and tire us by their lustre. But if Ossian's 
similes be too frequent, they have this advantage, of 
being commonly shorter than Homer's ; they interrupt 
his narration less ; he just glances aside to some re- 
sembling object, and instantly returns to his former 
track. Homer's similes include a wider range of ob- 
jects I but, in return, Ossian's are, without exception, 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 165 

taken from objects of dignity, which cannot be said for 
all those which Homer employs. The sun, the moon, 
and the stars, clouds and meteors, lightning and thun- 
der, seas and whales, rivers, torrents, winds, ice, rain, 
snow, dews, mist, fire and smoke, trees and forests, 
heath and grass and flowers, rocks and mountains, 
music and songs^ light and darkness, spirits and ghosts ; 
the<5e form the circle within which Ossian's compari- 
sons generally run. Some, not many, are taken from 
birds and beasts : as eagles, sea-fowl, the horse, the 
deer, and the mountain bee ; and a very few from 
such operations of art as were then known. Homer 
has diversified his imagery, by many more allusions to 
the animal world ; to lions, bulls, goats, herds of cattle, 
serpents, insects ; and to various occupations of rural 
and pastoral life. Ossian's defect in this article, is 
plainly owing to the desert, uncultivated state of his 
country, which suggested to him few images beyond 
natural inanimate objects, in their rudest form. The 
birds and animals of the country were probably not 
numerous ; and his acquaintance with them was slen- 
der, as they were little subjected to the uses of man. 

The great objection made to Ossian's imagery, is 
its uniformity, and the too frequent repetition of the 
same comparison. In a work so thick-sown with 
similes one could not but expect to find images of the 
same kind sometimes suggested to the poet by resem- 
bling objects ; especially to a poet like Ossian, who 
wrote from the immediate impulse of poetical enthusi- 
asm, and without much preparation of study or labor. 
Fertile as Homer's imagination is acknowledged to be, 
who does not know how often his lions, and bulls, and 
flocks of sheep, recur with little or no variation ; nay, 
sometimes, in the very same words ? The objection 
made to Ossian is, however, founded, in a great meas- 
ure, upon a mistake. It has been supposed by inat- 



156 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

tentive readers, that wherever the moon, the cloud, or 
the thunder, returns in a simile, it is the same simile, 
and the same moon, or cloud, or thunder, which they 
had met with a few pages before. Whereas very 
often the similes are widely different. The object, 
from whence they are taken, is indeed in substance 
the same ; but the image is new ,• for the appearance 
of the object is changed ; it is presented to the fancy 
in another attitude : and clothed with new circumstan- 
ces, to make it suit the different illustration for which 
it is employed. In this lies Ossian's great art ; in so 
happily varying the form of the few natural appear- 
ances with which he was acquainted, as to make them 
correspond to a great many different objects. 

Let us take for one instance the moon, v*^hich is very 
frequently introduced in his comparisons -, as in north- 
ern climates, where the nights are long, the moon is a 
greater object of attention than in the climate of Ho- 
mer ; and let us view how much our poet has diversi- 
fied its appearance. The shield of a warrior is like 
" the darkened moon when it moves a dun circle 
through the heavens." The face of a ghost, wan and 
pale, is like " the beam of the setting moon." And a 
different appearance of a ghost, thin and indistinct, is 
like " the new moon seen through the gathered mist, 
when the sky pours down its flaky snow, and the world 
is silent and dark ;" or, in a different form still, is like 
" the watery beam of the moon, when it rushes from 
between two clouds, and the midnight shower is on the 
field." A very opposite use is made of the moon ir. 
the description of Agandecca : " She came in all her 
beauty, like the moon from the cloud of the east." 
Hope succeeded by disappointment, is "joy rising on 
her face and sorrow returning again, like a thin cloud 
on the moon." But when Swaran, after his defeat, is 
cheered by Fingal's generosity, " his face brightened 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. lli? 

like the full moon of heaven, when the clouds vanish 
away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst of the 
sky." Yenvela is " bright as the moon when it. trem- 
bles o'er the western wave ;" but the soul of the guilty 
Uthal is " dark as the troubled face of the moon, when 
it foretells the storm." And by a very fanciful and 
uncommon allusion, it is said of Cormac, who was to 
die in his early years, " Nor long shalt thou lift the 
spear, mildly-shining beam of youth ! Death stands 
dim behind thee, like the darkened half of the moon 
behind its growing light." 

Another instance of the same nature may be takeji 
from mist, which, as being a very familiar appearance 
in the country of Ossian, he applies to a variety of pur- 
poses, and pursues through a great many forms. Some- 
times, which one would liardly expect, he employs it 
to heighten the appearance of a beautiful object. The 
hair of jMorna is " like the mist of Cromla, Vvhen it 
curls on the rock, and shines to the beam of the west." 
" The song comes with its music to melt and please 
the ear. It is like soft mist, that rising from the lake 
pours on the silent vale. The green flowers are filled 
with dew. The sun returns in its strength, and the 
mist is gone." But, for the most part, mist is employ- 
ed as a similitude of some disagreeable or terrible ob- 
ject. " The soul of Nathos was sad, like the sun in 
the day of mist, when his face is watery and dim." — 
'' The darkness of old age comes like the mist of the 
desert." The face of a ghost is " pale as the mist of 
Cromla." — '• The gloom of battle is rolled along as 
mist that is poured on the valley, when storms invade 
the silent sunshine of heaven." Fame, suddenly de- 
parting, is likened to " mist that flies away before the 
rustling wind of tlie vale." A ghost, slowly vanishing, 
to " mist that melts by degrees on the sunny hill." 
Cairbar, after his treacherous assassination of Oscar, is 
14 



158 CRITICAL DlSiJF.RTATiON 

compared to a pestilential fog. " I love a foe likci 
Cathmor,'" says Fingai, " his soul is great ; his arm is 
strong ; his battles are full of fame. But the little soul 
is like a vapor that hovers round the marshy lake. It 
never rises on the green hill, lest the winds meet it 
there. Its dwelling is in the cave ; and it sends forth 
the dart of death." This is a simile highly finished. 
But there is another which is still more striking, found- 
ed also on mist, in the fourth book of Temora. Two 
factious chiefs are contending : Cathmor, the king, in- 
terposes, rebukes, and silences them. The poet in- 
tends to give us the highest idea of Cathmor's supe- 
riority ; and most effectually accomplishes his intention 
by the following happy image. " They sunk from the 
king on either side, like two columns of morning mist, 
when the sun rises between them on his glittering 
rocks. Dark is their rolling on either side ; each to- 
wards its reedy pool." These instances may suffi- 
ciently show with what richness of imagination Ossian's 
comparisons abound, and, at the same time, with what 
propriety of judgment they are employed. If his field 
was narrow, it must be admitted to have been as well 
cultivated as its extent would allow. 

As it is usual to judge of poets from a comparison 
of their similes more than of other passages, it will, 
perhaps, be agreeable to the reader, to see how Homer 
and Ossian have conducted some images of the same 
kind. This might be shown in many instances. For 
as the great objects of nature are common to the poets 
of all nations, and make the general storehouse of all 
imagery, the groundwork of their comparisons must, 
of course, be frequently the same. I shall select only 
a few of the most considerable from both poets. Mr. 
Pope's translation of Flomer can be of no use to us 
here. The parallel is altogether unfair between prose 
and the imposing harmony of flowing numbers. It ia 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 159 

only by viewing Homer in the simplicity of a prose 
translation, that wc can form any comparison between 
the two bards. 

The shock of two encountering armies, the noise 
and the tumult of battle, afford one of the most grand 
and awful subjects of description ; on which all epic 
poets have exerted their strength. Let us first hear 
Homer. The following description is a favorite one, 
for we fmd it twice repeated in the same words.* 
" When now the conflicting hosts joined in the field 
of battle, then were mutually opposed shields, and 
swords, and the strength of armed men. The bossy 
bucklers were dashed against each other. The uni- 
versal tumult rose. There were mingled the triumph- 
ant shouts and the dying groans of the victors and the 
vanquished. The earth streamed with blood. As when 
winter torrents, rushing from the mountciins, pour into 
a narrow valley their violent waters. They issue from 
a thousand springs, and mix in the hollowed channel. 
Tiie distant shepherd hears on the mountain their roar 
from afar. Such was the terror and the shout of the 
engaging armies." In another passage, the poet, 
much in the manner of Ossian, heaps simile on simile, • 
to express the vastness of the idea with which his ima- 
gination seems to labor. " With a mighty shout the 
hosts engage. Not so loud roars the wave of ocean, 
when driven against the shore by the whole force of 
the boisterous north ; not so loud in the woods of the 
mountain, the noise of the flame, when rising in its 
fury to consume the forest ; not so loud the wind 
among the lofty oaks, when the wrath of the storm 
rages ; as was the clamor of the Greeks and Trojans, 
when, roaring terrible, they rushed against each 
other." t 

* niad, iv. 46 ; and Iliad, viii. 60. t Iliad, xiv. 393. 



160 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

To these descriptions and similes, we may oppose 
the following from Ossian, and leave the reader to 
judge between them. He will find images of the same 
kind employed ; commonly less extended ; but thrown 
forth with a glowing rapidity which characterizes our 
poet. " As autumn's dark storms pour from two echo- 
ing hills, towards each other approached the heroes. 
As two dark streams from high rocks meet and mix, 
and roar on the plains ; loud, rough, and dark in bat- 
tle, meet Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief mixed his strokes 
with chief, and man with man. Steel clanging, sound- 
ed on steel. Helmets are cleft on high ; blood bursts 
and smokes around. — As the troubled noise of the 
ocean, when vuW the waves on high ; as the last peal 
of the thunder of heaven ; such is the noise of battle." 
" As roll a thousand waves to the rock, so Swaran's 
host came on ; as meets a rock a thousand waves, so 
Inisfail met Swaran. Death raises all his voices 
around, and mixes with the sound of shields. — The 
field echoes from v/ing to wing, as a hundred hammers 
that rise by turns on the red son of the furnace." — ■ 
'' As a hundred winds on Morven ; as the streams of 
a hundred hills ; as clouds fly successive over heaven ; 
or as the dark ocean assaults the shore of the desert ; 
so roaring, so vast, so lerrible, the armies mixed on 
Lena's echoing heath." In several of these images 
there is a remarkable similarity to Homer's : but what 
follows is superior to any comparison that Homer uses 
on this subject. " The groan of the people spread 
over the hills ; it was like the thunder of night, when 
the cloud bursts on Cona, and a thousand ghosts shriek 
at once on the hollow wind." Never was an image 
of more awful sublimity employed to heighten the ter 
ror of battle. 

Both poets compare the appearance of an army ap* 
proaching, to the gathering of dark clouds. " As when 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 161 

a shepherd," says Homer, " beholds from the rock a 
cloud borne along the sea by the western wind ; black 
as pitch it appears from afar sailing over the ocean, 
and carrying the dreadful storm. He shrinks at the 
sight, and drives his flock into the cave : such, under 
the Ajaces, moved on the dark, the thickened phalanx 
to the war."* — " They came," says Ossian, "over the 
desert like stormy clouds, when the winds roll them 
o\er the heath ; their edges are tinged with lightning ; 
and the echoing groves foresee the storm." The 
edges of the clouds tinged with lightning, is a sublime 
idea : but the shepherd and his flock render Homer's 
simile more picturesque. This is frequently the dif- 
ference between the two poets. Ossian gives no more 
than the main image, strong and full : Homer adds 
circumstances and appendages, which amuse the fancy 
by enlivening the scenery. 

Homer compares the regular appearance of an army, 
to " clouds that are settled on the mountain-top, in the 
day of calmness, when the strength of the north wind 
sleeps."! Ossian, with full as much propriety, com- 
pares the appearance of a disordered army, to - the 
mountain cloud, when the blast hath entered its womb, 
and scatters the curling gloom on every side." Ossian's 
clouds assume a great many forms, and, as we might 
expect from his climate, are a fertile source of imagery 
to him. '• The warriors followed their chiefs like the 
gathering of the rainy clouds behind the red meteors 
of heaven." An army retreating without coming to 
action, is likened to " clouds, that having long threat- 
ened rain, retire slowly behind the hills." The picture 
of Oithona, after she had determined to die, is lively 
and delicate. " Her soul was resolved, and the tear 
was dried from her wildly-looking eye. A troubled 

* niad, iv. 275. t Iliad, v. 522. 

14* 



162 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

joy rose on her mind, like the red path of the lightning 
on a stormy cloud." The image also of the gloomy 
Cairbar, meditating, in silence, the assassination of 
Oscar, until the moment came when his designs were 
ripe for execution, is extremely noble and complete in 
all its parts. " Cairbar heard their words in silence, 
like the cloud of a shower ; it stands dark on Cromla 
till the lightning bursts its side. The valley gleams 
with red light ; the spirits of the storm rejoice. So 
stood the silent king of Temora ; at length his words 
are heard.'' 

Homer's comparison of Achilles to the Dog-Star, 
is very sublime. " Priam beheld him rushing along 
the plain, shining in his armor, like the star of autumn : 
bright are its beams, distinguished amidst the multi- 
tude of stars in the dark hour of night. It rises in its 
splendor ; but its splendor is fatal ; betokening to 
miserable men the destroying heat."* The first ap- 
pearance of Fingal is, in like manner, compared by 
Ossian to a star or meteor. '• Fingal, tall in his ship, 
stretched his bright lanCe before him. Terrible was 
the gleam of his steel ; it was like the green meteor 
of death, setting in the heath of Malmor, when the 
traveller is alone, and the broad moon is darkened in 
heaven." The hero's appearance in Homer is more 
magnificent ; in Ossian, more terrible. 

A tree cut down, or overthrown by a storm, is a 
similitude frequent among poets for describing the fall 
of a warrior in battle. Homer employs it often. But 
the most beautiful, by far, of his comparisons, founded 
on this object, indeed one of the most beautiful in the 
whole Iliad, is that on the death of Euphorbus. " As 
the young and verdant olive, which a man hath reared 
with care in a lonely field, where the springs of water 

* Iliad, xxii. 26. 



I 



- ON THE POEWS OF OSSIAN. 163 

bubble around it ; it is fair and flourishing ; it is fan- 
ned by the breath of all the winds, and loaded with 
white blossoms ; when the sudden blast of a whirlwind 
descending, roots it out from its bed, and stretches it 
on the dust."* To this, elegant as it is, we may op- 
pose the following simile of Ossian's, relating to the 
death of the three sons of Usnoth. " They fell, like 
three young oaks which stood alone c^i the hill. The 
traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered how they 
grew so lonely. The blast of the desert came by night, 
and laid their green heads low. Next day he return- 
ed ; but they were withered, and the heath was bare." 
Malvina's allusion to the same object, in her lamenta- 
tion over Oscar, is so exquisitely lender, that I cannot 
forbear giving it a place also. '• I was a lovely tree 
in thy presence. Oscar ! with all my branches round 
me. But thy death came, like a blast fiom the desert, 
and laid my green head low. The spring returned 
with its showers ; but no leaf of mine arose."' Several 
of Ossian's similes, taken from trees, are remarkably 
beautiful, and diversified with well-chosen circum- 
stances ; such as that upon the death of Ryno and 
Orla: " They have fallen like the oak of the desert ; 
when it lies across a stream, and withers in the wind 
of the mountains." Or tliat which Ossian applies to 
himself: " I, like an ancient oak in Morven, moulder 
alone in my place ; the blast hath lopped my branches 
away; and I tremble at the winds of the north." 

As Homer exalts- his heroes by comparing them to 
gods, Ossian makes the same use of comparisons taken 
from spirits and ghosts. " Swaran roared in battle, 
like the shrill spirit of a storm, that sits dim on -the 
clouds of Gormal, and enjoys the death of the mari- 
ner." His people gathered round Erragon, " like 



Iliad, xvii. 53. 



164 CRITlC/tL DISSERTATION 

Storms around the gliost of night, when he calls them 
from the top of Morvcn, and prepares to pour them on 
the land of the stranger." — " They fell before my son, 
like groves in the desert, when an angry ghost rushes 
through night, and takes their green heads in his hand." 
In such images, Ossian appears in his strength ; for 
very seldom have supernatural beings been painted 
with so much sublimity, and such force of imagination, 
as by this poet. Even Homer, great as he is, must 
yield to him in similes formed upon these. Take, for 
instance, the following, which is the most remarkable 
of this kind in the Iliad. " Meriones followed Idome- 
neus to battle, like Mars, the destroyer of men, when 
he rushes to war. Terror, his beloved son, strong rmd 
fierce, attends him ; who fills with dismay the most 
valiant hero. They come from Thrace armed against 
the Ephyrians and Phlegyans ; nor do they regard the 
prayers of either, but dispose of success at their wii!/" =" 
The idea here is undoubtedly noble, but observe vviiat 
a figure Ossian sets before the astonished imagination, 
and with wlmt sublimely-terrible circumstances he has 
heightened it. " He rushed, in the sound of his arms, 
like the dreadful spirit of Loda, when ho comes in the 
roar of a thousand storms, and scatters battles from 
his eyes. He sits on a cloud over Lochlin's seas. His 
mighty hand is on his sword. The wind lifts his 
fiaming locks. So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of 
his fame." 

Homer's comparisons relate chiefly to martial sub- 
jeets, to the appearances and motions of armies, the 
engagement and death of heroes, and the various in- 
cidents of war. In Ossian, we find a greater variety 
of other subjects, illustrated by similes, particularly 
the songs of bards, the beauty of women, the difierent 

♦ Iliad, xiii. 293. 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 165 

circumstances of old age, sorrow, and private distress ; 
which give occasion to much beautiful imagery. What, 
for instance, can be more delicate and moving, than 
the following simile of Oithona's, in her lamentation 
over the dishonor she had sulTered ? " Chief of Stru- 
mon." replied the sighing maid, " why didst thou 
come over the dark blue wave to Nuath's mournful 
daughter ? Why did not I pass away in secret, like 
the flower of the rock, that lifts its fair head unseen, 
and strews its withered leaves on the blast ?" The 
music of bards, a favorite object with Ossian, is illus- 
trated by a variety of the most beautiful appearances 
that are to be found in nature. It is compared to the 
calm shower of spring ; to the dews of the morning 
on the hill of roes ; to the face of the blue and still 
lake. Two similes on this subject I shall quote, be- 
cause they v/ould do honor to any of the most cele- 
brated classics. The one is : " Sit thou on the heath, 
O bard ! and let us hear thy voice ; it is pleasant as 
the gale of the spring that sighs on the hunter's ear, 
when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard 
the music of the spirits of the hill." The other con- 
tains a short but exquisitely tender image, accompa- 
nied with the finest poetical painting, " The music 
of Carril was like the memory of joys that are past, 
pleasant, and mournful to the soul. The ghosts of de- 
parted bards heard it from Slimora's side. Soft sounds 
spread along the wood ; and the silent valleys of night 
rejoice.'" What a figure would such imagery and such 
scenery have made, had they been presented to us 
adorned with the sweetness and harmony of the Vir- 
gilian numbers ! 

1 have chosen all along to compare Ossian with 
Homer, rather than Virgil, for an obvious reason. 
There is a much nearer correspondence between the 
times and manners of the two former poets. Both 



166 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

wrote in an early period of society ; both are origin- 
als ; both are distinguished by simplicity, sublimity, 
and fire. The correct elegances of Virgil, his artful 
imitation of Homer, the Roman statelineSs which he 
everywhere maintains, admit no parallel with the ab- 
rupt boldness and enthusiastic warmth of the Celtic 
bard. In one article, indeed, there is a resemblance. 
Virgil is more tender than Homer, and thereby agrees 
more with Ossian ; with this difference, that the feel- 
ings of the one are more gentle and polished — tho3e 
of the other more strong : the tenderness of Virgil 
softens — that of Ossian dissolves and overcomes the 
heart. 

A resemblance may be sometimes observed between 
Ossian's comparisons and those employed by the sa- 
cred writers. They abound much in this figure, and 
they use it with the utmost propriety. The imagery 
of Scripture exhibits a soil and climate altogether dif- 
ferent from those of Ossian : a warmer country, a more 
smiling face of nature, the arts of agriculture and of 
rural life much farther advanced. The wine-press and 
the threshing-floor are often presented to us ; the 
cedar and the palm-tree, the fragrance of perfumes, 
the voice of the turtle, and the beds of lilies. The 
similes are, like Ossian's, generally short, touching on 
one point of resemblance, rather than spread out into 
little episodes. In the following example may be per- 
ceived what inexpressible grandeur poetry receives 
from the intervention of the Deity. " The nations 
shall rush like the rushing of many waters ; but God 
shall rebuke them, and they shall fly far off, and shall 
be chased as the chaff of the mountains before the 
wind, and like the down of the thistle before the whirl- 
wind."* 

* Isaiah, xvii. 13 



1 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 167 

Besides formal comparisons, the poetry of Ossian is 
embellished with many beautiful metaphors ; such as 
that remarkably fine one applied to Deugala ; " She 
was covered with the light of beauty ; but her heart 
was the house of pride." This mode of expression, 
which suppresses the mark of comparison, and substi- 
tutes a figured description in room of the object de- 
scribed, is a great enlivener of style. It denotes that 
glow and rapidity of fancy, which, without pausing 
to form a regular simile, paints the object at one stroke. 
" Thou art to me the beam of the east, rising in a land 
unknown." — " In peace, thou art the gale of spring ; 
in war, the mountain storm." — " Pleasant be thy rest, 
O lovely beam ! soon hast thou set on our hills ! The 
steps of thy departure were stately, like the moon on 
the blue trembling wave. But thou hast left us in 
darkness, first of the maids of Lutha ! — Soon hast thou 
set, Malvina ! but thou risest, like the beam of the east, 
among the spirits of thy friends, where they sit in their 
stormy halls, the chambers of the thunder." This is 
correct, and finely supported. But in the following 
instance, the metaphor, though very beautiful at the 
beginning, becomes imperfect before it closes, by being 
improperly mixed with the literal sense. " Trathal 
went forth with the stream of his people : but they met 
a rock ; Fingal stood unmoved ; broken, they rolled 
back from his side. Nor did they roll in safety ; the 
spear of the king pursued their flight." 

The hyperbole is a figure which we might expect to 
find often employed by Ossian ; as the undisciplined 
imagination of early ages generally prompts exaggera- 
tion, and carries its objects to excess ; whereas longer 
experience, and farther progress in the arts of life, 
chasten men's ideas and expressions. Yet Ossian's 
hyperboles appear not, to me, either so frequent or so 
harsh as might at first have been looked for ; an ad- 



168 'JKITICAL DlStiEKTATION 

vantage owing, no doubly to the more cultivated state 
in which, as was before shown, poetry subsisted among 
the ancient Celtse, than among most other barbarous 
nations. One of the most exaggerated descriptions in 
the whole work, is what meets us at the beginning of 
Fingal, where the scout makes his report to Cuthullin 
of the landing of the foe. But this is so far from de- 
serving censure, that it merits praise, as being on that 
occasion natural and proper. The scout arrives, trem- 
bling and full of fears ; and it is well known that no 
passion disposes men to hyperbolize more than terror. 
It both annihilates themselves in their own apprehen- 
sion, and magnifies every object which they view 
through the medium of a troubled imagination. Hence 
all those indistinct images of formidable greatness, the 
natural marks of a disturbed and confused mind, which 
occur in Moran's description of Swaran's appearance, 
and in his relation of the conference which they held 
together ; not unlike the report which the affrighted 
Jewish spies made to their leader, of the land of Ca- 
naan. •" The land through which we have gone to 
search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants there- 
of ; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a 
great stature : and there saw we giants, the sons of 
Anak, which come of the giants ; and we were in our 
own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their 
sight."* 

With regard to personifications, I formerly observed 
that Ossian was sparing, and I accounted for his being 
so. Allegorical personages he has none ; and their 
absence is not to be regretted. For the intermixture 
of those shadowy beings, which have not the support 
even of mythological or legendary belief, with human 
actors, seldom produces a gooi effect. The fiction 

♦ Numbers, xiii. 32, 33. 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAW. 169 

becomes too visible and fantastic ; and overthrows that 
impression of reality, which the probable recital of hu- 
man actions is calculated to make upon the mind. In 
the serious and pathetic scenes of Ossian, especially, 
allegorical characters would have been as much out of 
place as in tragedy ; serving only unseasonably to 
amuse the fancy, whilst they stopped the current and 
weakened the force of passion. 

With apostrophes, or addresses to persons absent or 
dead, which have been in all ages the language of pas- 
sion, our poet abounds ; and they are among his high- 
est beauties. Witness the apostrophe, in the first book 
of Fingal, to the maid of inistore, whose lover had 
fallen in battle ; and that inimitably fine one of Cuthul- 
lin to Bragela, at the conclusion of the same book. 
He commands the harp to be struck in her praise ; and 
the mention of Bragela's name immediately suggesting 
to him a crowd of tender ideas — " Dost thou raise thy 
fair face from the rocks,'' he exclaims, " to find the 
sails of Cuthullin ? The sea is rolling far distant, and 
its white foam shall deceive thee for my sails." And 
now his imagination being wrought up to conceive her 
as, at that moment, really in this situation, he becomes 
afraid of the harm she may receive from the inclem- 
ency of the night ; and with an enthusiasm happy and 
aflTecting, though beyond the cautious strain of modern 
poetry, " Retire," he proceeds, " retire, for it is night, 
my love, and the dark winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to 
the hall of my feasts, and think of the times that are 
past : for I will not return until the storm, of war has 
ceased. O, Connal ! speak of wars and arms, and 
send her from my mind ; for lovely with her raven 
hair is the v/hite-bosomed daughter of Sorglan." This 
breathes all the native spirit of passion and tenderness. 

The addresses to the sun, to the moon, and to the 
evening star, must draw the attention of every reader 
15 



170 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

of taste, as among the most splendid ornaments ot this 
collection. The beauties of each are too great and too 
obvious to need any particular comment. In one pas- 
sage only of the address to the moon, there appears 
some obscurity. " Whither dost thou retire from thy 
course when the darkness of thy countenance grows ? 
Hast thou thy hall like Ossian ? Dwellest thou in the 
shadow of grief ? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven ? 
Are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more ? 
Yes, they have fallen, fair light ! and thou dost often 
retire to mourn." We may be at a loss to compre- 
hend, at first view, the ground of those speculations of 
Ossian concerning the moon : but when all the circum- 
stances arc attended to, they will appear to flow natu- 
rally from the present situation of his mind. A mind 
under the dominion of any strong passion, tinctures 
with its own disposition every object which it beholds. 
The old bard, with his heart bleeding for the loss of 
all his friends, is meditating on the different phases of 
the moon. Her waning and darkness present to his 
melancholy imagination the image of sorrow ; and 
presently the idea arises, and is indulged, that like 
himself, she retires to mourn over the loss of other 
moons, or of stars, whom he calls her sisters, and fan- 
cies to have once rejoiced with her at night, now fallen 
from heaven. Darkness suggested the idea of mourn- 
ing, and mourning suggested nothing so naturally to 
Ossian as the death of beloved friends. An instance 
precisely similar, of this influence of passion, may be 
seen in a passage, which has always been admired, of 
Shakspeare's King Lear. The old man, on the point of 
distraction through the inhumanity of his daughters, sees 
Edgar appear, disguised like a beggar and a madman. 

Iawt. Didst thou give all to thy daughters % And art thou come 
to this 1 
Couldst thou leave nothing 1 Didst thou give them all "? 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSlAN. 171 

Kent. He hath no daughters, sir. 

Lear. Death, traitor ! nothing could have subdued nature 
To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters. 

The apostrophe to the winds, in the opening of Dar- 
thula, is in the highest spirit of poetry. " But the 
winds deceive thee, O Dar-thula ! and deny the woody 
Etha to thy sails. These are not thy mountains, 
Nathos, nor is that the roar of thy cHmbing waves. 
The halls of Cairbar are near, and the towers of the 
foe lift their heads. Where have ye been, ye southern 
winds ! when the sons of my love were deceived ? But 
ye have been sporting on plains, and pursuing the this- 
tle's beard. O that ye had been rustling in the sails 
of Nathos, till the hills of Etha rose ! till they rose in 
their clouds, and saw their coming chief." This pas- 
sage is remarkable for the resemblance it bears to an 
expostulation with the wood nymphs, on their absence 
at a critical time ; which, as a favorite poetical idea, 
Virgil has copied from Theocritus, and Milton has very 
happily imitated from both. 

Where were ye, nymphs ! when the remorseless deep 

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas 1 

For neither were ye playing on the steep 

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, he ! 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona, high. 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. — Lydd. 

Having now treated fully of Ossian's talents, with 
respect to description and imagery, it only remains to 
make some observations on his sentiments. No sen- 
timents can be beautiful without being proper ; that is, 
suited to the character and situation of those who utter 
them, In this respect Ossian is as correct as most 
writers. His characters, as above described, are, in 
general, well supported ; which could not have been 
the case, had the sentiments been unnatural or out of 
place. A variety of personages, of different ages, sexes, 
and conditions, are introduced into his poems ; and 



172 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

they speak and act with a propriety of sentiment and 
behavior which it is surprising to find in so rude an age 
Let the poem of Dar-thula, throughout, be taken as an 
example. 

But it is not enough that sentiments be natural and 
proper. In order to acquire any high degree of poeti- 
cal merit, they must also be sublime and pathetic. 

The sublime is not confined to sentiment alone. It 
belongs to description also ; and whether in descrip- 
tion or in sentiment, imports such ideas presented to 
the mind, as raise it to an uncommon degree of eleva- 
tion, and fill it with admiration and astonishment. This 
is the highest effect either of eloquence or poetry ; and, 
to produce this cfTect^ requires a genius glowing with 
the strongest and warmest conception of some object, 
awful, great, or magnificent. That this character of 
genius belongs to Ossian, may, I think, sufficiently ap- 
pear from many of the passages I have already had 
occasion to quote. To produce more instances were 
superfluous. If the engagement of Fingal with the 
spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura ; if the encounters of 
the armies, in Fingal 5 if the address to the sun, in 
Carthon ; if the similes founded upon ghosts and' spirits 
of the night, all formerly mentioned, be not admitted 
as examples, and illustrious ones too, of the true poeti- 
cal sublime, I confess myself entirely ignorant of this 
quality in writing. 

All the circumstances, indeed, of Ossian 's composi- 
tion, are favorable to the sublime, more perhaps than 
to any other species of beauty. Accuracy and correct- 
ness, artfully connected narration, exact method and 
proportion of parts, we may look for in polished times. 
The gay and the beautiful will appear to more advan- 
tage in the midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable 
themes ; but, amidst the rude scenes of nature, amidst 
7Gcks and torrents, and whirlwinds and battles, dwells 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 1Y3 

the sublime. It is the thunder and the lightning of 
genius. It is the offspring of nature, not of art. It is 
negligent of all the lesser graces, and perfectly con- 
sistent with a certain noble disorder. It associates 
naturally with that grave and solemn spirit which dis- 
tinguishes our author. For the sublime is an awful 
and serious emotion ; and is heightened by all the 
images of trouble, and terror, and darkness. 

L)se pater, media nimborum in nocte, corused 
Fulmina molitur dextra ; quo maxima motu 
Terra tremit ; fugere lerae ; et mortalia corda 
Per gentes, humilis stravit pavor ; ille, flagranti 
Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo 
Dejicit. Virg. Georg. i. 

Simplicity and conciseness are never-failing charac- 
teristics of the style of a sublime writer. He rests on 
the majesty of his sentiments, not on the pomp of his 
expressions. The main secret of being sublime is to 
say great things in few, and in plain words : for every 
superfluous decoration degrades a sublime idea. The 
mind rises and swells, when a lofty description or sen- 
timent is presented to it in its native form. But no 
sooner does the poet attempt to spread out this senti- 
ment, or description, and to deck it round and round 
with glittering ornaments, than the mind begins to fall 
from its high elevation ; the transport is over ; the 
beautiful may remain, but the sublime is gone. Hence 
the concise and simple style of Ossian gives great ad- 
vantage to his sublime conceptions, and assists them in 
seizing the imagination with full power. 

SubHmity, as belonging to sentiment, coincides, in a 
great measure, with magnanimity, heroism, and gener- 
osity of sentiment. Whatever discovers human nature 
in its greatest elevation ; whatever bespeaks a high 
effort of soul, or shows a mind superior to pleasures, 
to dangers, and to death, forms what may be called 
the moral of sentimental sublime. For this Ossian is 
15* 



174 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

eminently distinguished. No poet maintains a liigher 
tone of virtuous and noble sentiment throughout all his 
works. Particularly in all the sentiments of Fingal 
there is a grandeur and loftiness, proper to swell the 
mind with the highest ideas of human perfection. 
Wherever he appears, we behold the hero. The ob- 
jects which he pursues are always truly great : to bend 
the proud ; to protect the injured ; to defend his friends ; 
to overcome his enemies by generosity more than by 
force. A portion of the same spirit actuates all the 
other heroes. Valor reigns ; but it is a generous 
valor, void of ciaielty, animated by honor, not by hatred. 
We behold no debasing passions among Fingal's war- 
riors ; no spirit of avarice or of insult ; but a perpetual 
contention for fame ; a desire of being distinguished 
and remembered for gallant actions ; a love of justice ; 
and a zealous attachment to their friends and their 
country. Such is the strain of sentiment in the works 
of Ossian. 

But the sublimity of moral sentiments, if they want- 
ed the softening of the tender, would be in hazard of 
giving a hard and stiff air to poetry. It is not enough 
to admire. Admiration is a cold feeling, in compari- 
son of that deep interest which the heart takes in ten- 
der and pathetic scenes ; where, by a mysterious 
attachment to the objects of compassion, we are pleas- 
ed and delighted, even whilst we mourn. With scenes 
of tnis kind Ossian abounds ; and his high merit in 
thei^e is incontestible. He may be blamed for draw- 
ing tears too often from our eyes ; but that he has the 
power of commanding them, I believe no man, who 
has the least sensibility, will question. The general 
character of his poetry is the heroic mixed with the 
elegiac strain; admiration tempered with pity. Ever 
fond of giving, as he expresses it, " the joy of grief," 
it is visible that, on all moving subjects, he delights to 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 176 

exert his genius ; and, accordingly, never were there 
finer pathetic situations than what his works present. 
His great art in managing them lies in giving vent to 
the simple and natural emotions of the heart. We 
mee* with no exaggerated declamation ; no subtile re- 
fihcments on sorrow ; no substitution of description in 
])!ace of passion. Ossian felt strongly himself; and 
the heart, when uttering its native language, never fails, 
by powerful S3'mpathy, to affect the heart. A great 
variety of examples might be produced. We need 
only open the book to find them every vvhere. What, 
for instance, can be more moving than the lamenta- 
tions of Oithona, after her misfortune ? Gaid, the son 
of I\Iorni, her lover, ignorant of what she had suffered, 
comes to her rescue. Their meeting is tender in the 
fiigliest degree. He proposes to engage her foe, in 
tingle combat, and gives her in charge what she is to 
do if he himself shall fall. '•' And shall the daughter 
of Nuath live ?" she replied, with a bursting sigh. 
" Shall I live in Tromathon. and the son of Morni 
low ? ]\Iy heart is not of that rock : nor my soul care- 
less as that sea, which lifts its blue waves to every 
wind, and rolls beneath the storm. The blast, which 
shall lay thee low, shall spread the branches of Oithona 
on earth. We shall wither together, son of car-borne 
Morni ! The narrow house is pleasant to me, and the 
gray stone of the dead ; for never more will I leave 
tny rocks, sea-surrounded Tromatlion ! — Chief of Stru- 
nion ! why comest thou over the waves to Nuath's 
mournful daughter ? Why did I not pass away in 
secret, like the flower of the rocks that lifts its fair 
head unseen, and strews its withered leaves on the 
blast 1 Why didst thou come, O Gaul ! to hear my 
departing sigh ? — O, had I dwelt at Duvranna, in the 
bright beam of my fame ! Then had my years come 
on with joy : and the virgins would bless my steps. 



17C CRITICAL DISSERTATION- 

But I fall in youth, son of Morni ! and my father d-i . 
blush in his hall !" 

Oithona mourns like a woman : in Cuthullin's ex> 
pressions of grief after his defeat, we behold the senti- 
ments of a hero — generous, but desponding. The sit- 
uation is remarkably fine. Cuthullin, roused from his 
cave by the noise of battle, sees Fingal victorious in 
the field. He is described as kindling at the sight. 
'' His hand is on the sword of his fathers ; his red-roll- 
ing eyes on the foe. He thrice attempted to rush to 
battle ; and thrice did Connal stop him ;" suggesting 
that Fingal was routing the foe ; and that he ought 
not, by the shaw of superfluous aid, to deprive the king 
of any part of the honor of a victory, which was owing 
to him alone. > Cuthullin yields to this generous senti- 
ment ; but we see it stineino; him to the heart with the 
sense of his own disgrace. " Then, Carril, go," re- 
plied the chief, " and greet the king of Morven. VVher 
Lochlin falls avvay like a stream after rain, and the 
noise of the battle is over, then be thy voice sweet in 
his ear, to praise the king of swords. Give him the 
sword of Caithbat ; for Cuthullin is worthy no more to 
lift the arms of his fathers. But, O ye ghosts of the 
lonely Cromla ! ye souls of chiefs that are no more ' 
be ye the companions of Cuthullin, and talk to him in 
the cave of his sorrow. For never more shall I be re- 
nowned among the mighty in the land. I am like a 
beam that has shone : like a mist that has fled away ; 
when the blast of the morning came, and brightened 
.he shaggy side of the hill. Connal ! talk of arms no 
more : departed is my fame. My sighs shall be on 
Cromla's wind ; till my footsteps cease to be seen. 
And thou, white-bosomed Bragela ! mourn over the 
fall of my fame : for vanquished, I will never return to 
thee, thou sunbeam of Dunscaich !" 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 177 

^Estuat inffens 

Uno in corde pudor, luctusque, et conscia virtus. 

Besides such extended pathetic scenes, Ossian fre- 
quently pierces the heart by a single unexpected stroke. 
When Oscar fell in battle, " No father mourned his 
son slain in youth ; no brother, his brother of love ; 
they fell without tears, for the chief of the people was 
low." In the admirable interview of Hector with Andro- 
mache, in the sixth Iliad, the circumstance of the child 
in his nurse's arms, has often been remarked as adding 
much to the tenderness of the scene. In the following 
passage, relating to the death of Cuthullin, we find a 
circumstance that must strike the imagination with still 
greater force. " And is the son of Semo fallen V 
said Carril, with a sigh. " Mournful are Tura's walls, 
and sorrow dwells at Dunscaich. Thy spouse is left 
alone in her youth ; the son of thy love is alone. He 
shall come to Bragela, and ask her why she weeps ? 
He shall lift his eyes to the wall, and see his father's 
sword. Whose sword is that 1 he will say ; and the 
soul of his mother is sad." Soon after Fingal had 
shown all the grief of a father's heart for Ryno, one 
of his sons, fallen in battle, he is calling, after his ac- 
customed manner, his sons to the chase. " Call," says 
he, " Fillan and Ryno. — But he is not here. — My son 
rests on the bed of death." This unexpected start of 
anguish is worthy of the highest tragic poet. 

If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife— 

My wife ! — my wife ! — ^What wife ">. — I have no wife — 

Oh, insupportable ! Oh, heavy hour ! Othello. 

The contrivance of the incident in both poets is 
similar : but the circumstances are varied with judg- 
ment. Othello dwells upon the name of wife, when it 
had fallen from him, with the confusion and horror of 
one tortured with guilt. Fingal, with the dignity of a 
hero, corrects himself, and suppresses his rising grief. 



178 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

The contrast vvliich Ossian frequently makes between 
his present and his former state, diffuses over his whole 
poetry a solemn pathetic air, which cannot fail to make 
impression on every heart. The conclusion of the 
songs of Selmais particularly calculated for this purpose. 
Nothing can be more poetical and tender, or can leave 
upon the mind a stronger and more affecting idea of 
the venerable and aged bard. " Such were the words 
of the bards in the days of the song ; when the king 
heard the music of harps, and the tales of other times. 
The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the 
lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona,* the 
first among a thousand bards. But age is now on my 
tongue, and my soul has failed. I hear, sometimes, 
the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. 
But memory fails on my mind ; I hear the call of 
years. They sa,y, as they pass along, Why does 
Ossian sing ? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, 
and no bard shall raise his fame. Roll on, ye dark- 
brown years ! for ye bring no joy in your course. Let 
the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. 
The sons of the song are gone to rest. My voice re- 
mains, like a blast, that roars lonely on the sea-rur- 
rounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss 
whistles there, and the distant mariner sees the waving 
trees." 

Upon the whole, if to feel strongly, and to describe 
naturally, be the two chief ingredients in poetical ge- 
nius, Ossian must, after fair examination, be held to 
possess that genius in a high degree. The question is 
not, whether a few improprieties may be pointed out in 
his works ? — whether this or that passage might not 
have been worked up with more art and skill, by some 
writer of happier times ? A thousand such cold and 

• Ossian himself is poetically called the voice of Cona. 



OF THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 179 

(rivolous eriticisiTjs are altogether indecisive as to his 
genuine merit. But has he the spirit, the fire, the in- 
spiration of a poet? Does he utter the voice of nature ? 
Does he elevate by his sentiments ? Does he interest 
by his description ? Does he paint to the heart as well 
as to the fancy ? Does he make his readers glov/, and 
tremble, and weep ? These are the great character- 
istics of true poetry. Where these are found, he must 
be a minute critic, indeed, who can dwell upon slight 
defects. A few beauties of tliis high kind transcend 
whole volumes of faultless mediocrity. Uncouth and 
abrupt Ossian may sometimes appear, by reason of his 
conciseness ; but he is sublime, he is pathetic, in an 
eminent degree. If he has not the extensive know- 
ledge, the regular dignity of narration, the fulness and 
accuracy of description, which we find in Homer and 
Virgil, yet in strength of imagination, in grandeur of 
sentiment, in native majesty of passion, he is fully 
their equal. If he flows not always like a clear stream, 
yet he breaks forth often like a torrent of fire. Of art, 
too, he is far from being destitute ; and his imagination 
is remarkable for delicacy as well as strength. Seldom 
or never is he either trifling or tedious ; and if he be 
ihought too melancholy, yet he is always moral. 
Though his merit were in other respects much less 
than it is, this alone ought to entitle him to high regard, 
that his writings are remarkably favorable to virtue. 
They awake the tenderest sympathies, and inspire the 
most generous emotions. No reader can rise from him 
Without being warmed with the sentiments of human- 
ity, virtue, and honor. 

Though unacquainted with the original language, 
there is no one but must judge the translation to de- 
serve the highest praise, on account of its beauty and 
elegance. Of its faithfulness and accuracy, I have 
been assured by persons skilled in the Gaelic tongue, 



180 CRITICAL DISSERTATIO-N 

who from their youth were acquainted with many of 
these poems of Ossian. To transfuse such spirited 
and fervid ideas from one language into another ; to 
translate Uterally, and yet with such a glow of poetry ; 
to keep alive so much passion, and support so much 
dignity throughout ; is one of the most difficult works 
of genius, and proves the translator to have been ani- 
mated with no small portion of Ossian's spirit. 

The measured prose which he has employed, pos- 
sesses considerable advantages above any sort of ver- 
sification he could have chosen. While it pleases and 
fills the ear with a variety of harmonious cadences, 
being, at the same time, freer from constraint in the 
choice and arrangement of words, it allows the spirit 
of the original to be exhibited, with more justness, 
force, and simplicity. Elegant, however, and master- 
ly, as Mr. Macpherson's translation is, we must never 
forget, whilst we read it, that we are putting the merit 
of the original to a severe test. For we are examining 
a poet stripped of his native dress ; divested of the 
harmony of his own numbers. We know how much 
grace and energy the works of the Greek and Latin 
poets receive from the charm of versification in their 
original languages. If then, destitute of this advan- 
tage, exhibited in a literal version, Ossian still has 
power to please as a poet ; and not to please only, but 
often to command, to transport, to melt the heart ; we 
may very safely infer that his productions are the off- 
spring of a true and uncommon genius ; and we may 
boldly assign him a place among those whose works 
are to last for agea. 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. IB\ 



NOTE. (p. 93.) 

Pugnavimus ensibus 
Haud pes t iongum tempus 
Cum in Gotlandia accessimus 
Ad sernentis immensi necem 
Tunc impetravimus Thoram 
Ex hoc vocarunt me virum 
Quod serpentem transfodi 
Hirsutam braccam ob illam csedem 
Cuspide ictum intuli in colubrum 
FeiTO lucidorum stupendiorum. 

Multum juvcnis fui quando acquisivimus' 

Orientem versus in Oreonico freto 

Vulnerum amnes avidse ferse 

Et flavipcdi avi 

Accepirnus ibidem sonuerunt 

Ad sublimes galeas 

Dura ferra magnam escam 

Omnis erat oceanus vulnus 

Vadavit corvus in sanguine csesorum. 

Alte tulimu/i tunc lanceas 

Quando viginti annos numeravimus 

Et celebrem Iciudem comparavimus passim 

Vicimus octo barones 

In oriente ante Dimini portum 

Aquiise impetravimus tunc sufficientom 

Hospitii sumptum in ilia strage 

Sudor decidit in vulnerum 

Uceano perdidit exercitus setatem. 

Pugnse facta copia 
Cum Helsingianos postulavimus 
Ad aulam Odini 

Naves direximus in ostium Vistulaa 
If 



182 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

Mucro potuit luin mordere 
Omnis crat vulnus unda 
Terra rubefacta calido 
Frendebat gladius in loricas 
Gladius fuidebat clypros. 

Memini neminem tunc fugisse 
Priusquam in navibus 
Heraudus in bello caderet 
Non findit navibus 
Alius baro prsestantior 
Mare ad portum 
In navibus longis post ilium 
Sic attulit princeps passim 
Alacre in bellum cor. 

Exercitus abjecit clypeos 
Cum hasta volavit 
Ardua ad virorum pectora 
Momordit Scarforum cautes 
Cladius in pugna 
Sanguineus erat clypeus 
Antequam Rafno rex caderet 
Fluxit ex virorum capitibus 
Calidas in loricas sudor. 

Habere potuerunt tum corvi 
Ante Indirorum insulas 
Sufficicntem prsedam dilaniandam 
Acquisivimus feris carnivoris 
Plenum prandium unico actu 
Difficile erat unius facere mentionem 
Oriente sole 
Spicula vidi pungere 
Propulerunt arcus ex se ferra. 

Altum mugierunt enses 
Antequam in Laneo campo 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 188 

Eislinus rex cecidit 

Processimus auro ditati 

Ad terrain prostratorum dimicandum 

Gladius secuit clypeorura 

Picturas in galearum conventu 

Cervicum mustum ex vulneribus 

Diffusum per cerebrum fissum. 

Tenuimus clypeos in sanguine 

Cum hastam unximus 

Ante Boring hoi mum 

Telorum nubes disrumpunt clypeum 

Extrusit arcus ex se metallum 

Volnir cecidit in conflictu 

Non erat illo rex major 

Caesi dispersi late per littora 

Ferse amplectebantur escam. 

Pugna manifeste crescebat 

Antequam Freyr rex caderet 

In Flandorum terra 

Coepit cseruleus ad incidendum 

Sanguine illitus in auream 

Loricam in pugna 

Durus armorum mucro olim 

Virgo deploravit matutinam lanienam 

Multa prseda dabatur feris. 

Centies centenos vidi jacere 

In navibus 

Ubi iEnglanes vocatur 

Navigavimus ad pugnam 

Per sex dies antequam exercitus caderet 

Transegimus mucronum missam 

In exortu solis 

Coactus est pro nostris gladiis 

Valdiofur in bello occumbere. 



184 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

Ruit pluvia sanguinis de gladiis 

Prseceps in Bardafyrde 

Pallidum corpus pro accipitribus 

Murmuravit arcus ubi mucro 

Acriter mordebat loricas 

In conflictu 

Odini pileus galea 

Cucurrit arcus ad vulnus 

Venenate acutus conspersus sudore sanguineo. 

Tenuimus magica scuta 

Alte in pugnse ludo 

Ante Hiadningum sinum 

Videre licuit turn viros 

Qui gladiis lacerarunt clypeos 

In gladiatorio murmure 

Galese attritse virorum 

Erat sicut splendidam virginem 

In lecto juxta se collocare. 

Dura venit tempestas clypeis 

Cadaver cecidit in terram 

In Nortumbria 

Erat circa matutinum tempus 

Hominibus necessum erat fugere 

Ex prselio ubi acute 

Cassidis campos mordebant gladii 

Erat hoc veluti juvenem viduam 

In primaria sede osculari. 

Herthiofe evasit fortunatus 

In Austral ibus Orcadibus ipse 

Victorise in nostris hominibus 

Cogebatur in armorum nimbo 

Rogvaldus occumbere 

Iste venit summus super accipitres 

Luctus in gladiorum ludo 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 185 

Strenue jactabat concussor 
Galeae sanguinis teli, 

Quilibet jacebat transversim supm alium 

Gaudcbat pugna Isetus 

Accipiter ob gladiorum ludum 

Non fecit aquilam aut aprum 

Qui Irlandiam gubernavit 

Conventus fiebat ferri et clypei 

Marstanus rex jejunis 

Fiebat in vedrss sinu 

Prseda data cor vis. 

Bellatorem multum vidi cadere 
Mante ante machseram 
Virum in mucronum dissidio 
Filio meo incidit mature 
Gladius juxta cor 
Egillus fecit Agnerum spoliatum 
Imperterritum virum vita 
Sonuit lancea prope Hamdi 
Griseam loricam splendebant vexilk 

Verborum tenaces vidi dissecare 

Haud minutim pro lupis 

Endili maris ensibus 

Erat per hebdomadse spatium 

Quasi mulieres vinum apportarenl 

Rubefactse erant naves 

Valde in strepitu armorum 

Scissa erat lorica 

In Scioldungorum prselio. 

Pulcricomum vidi crepuscu.ascere 
Virginia amatorem circa matutinum 
Et confibulationis amicum viduarum 
Erat sicut calidum balneum 
Vinei vasis nympha portaret 
16* 



186 CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

Nos in Use freto 
Antcquam Orn rex caderet 
SangLiineurii clypeum vidi ruptuin 
Hoc invertit virorum vitam. 

Egimus gladiorum ad caedem 
Ludum in Lindis insula 
Cum regibus tribus 
Pauci potuerunt inde IsBtari 
Cecidit multus in rictum ferarum 
Accipiter dilaniavit carnem cum lupo 
Ut satur inde discederet 
Hybernorum sanguinis in oceanum 
Copiose decidit per mactationis tempu*- 

Alte gladius mordebat clypeos 
Tunc cum aurei colors 
Hasta fricabat loricas 
Videre licuit in Onlugs insula 
Per ssecula multum post 
Ibi fuit ad gladiorum ludos 
Reges processerunt 
Rubicundum erat circa insulani 
At volans Draco vulnerum. 

Quid est viro forti morte certius 
Etsi ipse in armorum nimbo 
Adversus collocatus sit 
Ssepe deplorat ostatem 
Qui nunquam premitur 
Malum ferunt timidum incitare 
Aquilam ad gladiorum ludum 
Meticulosus venit nuspiam 
Cordi suo usui. 

Hoc numero sequum ut procodat 
In contactu gladiorum 
Juvenis unus contra alterum 



ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 187 

Non retrocedat vir a viro 
Hoc fuit viri fortis nobilitas diu 
Semper debet amoris amicus virginum 
Audax esse in fremiti! armorum. 

Hoc vidclur mihi re vera 

Quod feta sequimur 

Rarus transgreditur fata Parcarum 

Non destinavi Ellce 

De vita3 exitu meas 

Cum ego sanguinem semimortuus tegereni 

Et naves in aquas protrusi 

Pas«irn impetravim.us turn feris 

Escani in Scotiee sinubus. 

Hoc riderc me facit semper 

Quod Baldcri j)atris scamnp 

Parata scio in aula 

Bibemus ccrevisiam brevi 

Ex concavis crateribus craniorum 

Non gemit vir fortis contra mortem, 

Magnifici m Ooini domibus 

Non venio disperabundis 

Verbis ad Odini aulam. 

Hie vellent nunc omnes 
Filii Aslaugse gladiis 
Amarum be 11 urn excitare 
Si exacte scirent 
Calamitates nostras 
Quern non pauci angues 
Venenati me discerpunt 
Matrem accepi meis 
Filiis ita ut corda valeant. 

Valde inclinatur ad hoereditatem 
Crudele stat nocumentum a vipera 
Anguis inbabitat aulam cordis 



188 CRITICAL DISSERTATION, ETC. 

Speramus alterius ad Othini 
Virgam in EUse sanguine 
Filiis meis livescet 
Sua ira rubescet 
Non acres juvenes 
Sessionem tranquiliam facienl, 

Habeo quinquagies 

Praelia sub signis facta 

Ex belli invitatione et semel 

Minime putavi hominum 

Quod me futurus esset 

Juvenis didici mucronem rubefacera 

Alius rex prsestantior 

Nos Asse invitabunt 

Non est lugenda mors. 

Fert animus finire 
Invitant me Dysse 
Quas ex Othini aula 
Othinus mihi misit 
Lseti5s cerevisiam cum Asig 
In summa sede bibam 
Vitse elapsse sunt horse 
Ridens moriar. 



CATH-LODA. 



ARGUMENT OF DUAN I. 



Fingal, when very yonn^, making a voyage to the Orkney Islands, 
was driven by stress of weather into a bay of Scandinavia, near 
the residence ot" Starno, king of Lochlin. Starno invites Finaal 
to a feast. Fingal, doubting the faith of the king, and mindful 
of a former breach of hospitaUty, refuses to go. — Starno gathers 
together his tribes; Fingal resolves to defend himself. — Night 
coming on, Duth-maruno proposes to Fingal to observe the mo- 
tions of the enemy. — The king himself undertakes the watch. 
Advancing towards the enemy, he accidentally comes to the 
cave of Turthor, w'here Starno had confined ConbaivCargla, the 
captive daughter of a neighboring chief — Her story is imperfect, 
a part of the original being lost. — Fingal comes to a place of 
worship, where Starno, and his son Swaran, consulted tne spirit 
of Loda concerning the issue of the war. — The ren<;oimter of 
Fingal and Swaran. — Duan first concludes with a description of 
the airy hall of Cnith-ioda, supposed to be the Odin of Scandi- 
navia. 

A Tale of the times of old ! 

Why, thou wanderer unseen ! thou bender of the 
thistle of Lora ; why, thou breeze of the valley, hast 
thou left mine ear 1 I hear no distant roar of streams ! 
No sound of the harp from the rock ! Come, thou hun- 
tress of Lutha, Malvina, call back his soul to the bard. 
I look forward to Lochin of lakes, to the dark billowy 
bay of U-thorno, where Fingal descends from ocean, 
from the roar of winds. Few are the heroes of Mor- 
ven in a land unknown ! 

Starno sent a dweller of Loda to bid Fingal to the 
feast ; but the king remembered the past, and all his 
rage arose. "Nor Gormal's mossy towers, nor Star- 
no, shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like shadows, 
over his fiery soul ! Do I forget that beam of light, the 

* The bards distinguished those compositions in which the nar- 
ration is often interrupted by episodes and apostrophes, by the 
aaine of Duan. 



190 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

white-handed daughter of kings ?* Go, son of Loda ; 
his words are wind to Fingal : wind, that, to and fro, 
drives the thistle in autumn's dusky vale. Duth-maru- 
no, arm of death ! Cromma-glas, of Iron shields ! 
Struthmor, dweller of battle's wing ! Cromar, whose 
ships bound on seas, careless as the course of a me- 
teor, on dark-rolling clouds ! Arise around me, chil- 
dren of heroes, in a land unknown ! Let each look on 
his shield like Trenmor, the ruler of wars." — "Come 
down," thus Trenmor said, " thou dweller between the 
harps ! Thou shalt roll this stream away, or waste 
with me in earth." 

Around the king they rise in wrath. No words 
come forth : they seize their spears. Each soul is 
rolled into itself. At length the sudden clang is waked 
on all their echoing shields. Each takes his hill by 
night ; at intervals they darkly stand. Unequal bursts 
the hum of songs, between the roaring wind ! 

Broad over them rose the moon ! 

In his arms came tall Duth-maruno : he, from Croma 
of rocks, stern hunter of the boar ! In his dark boat 
he rose on waves, when Crumthormof awaked its 
woods. In the chase he shone, among foes : No fear 
was thine, Duth-maruno ! 

" Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be forward 
through night ? From this shield shall I view them, 
over their gleaming tribes ? Starno, king of lakes, is 
before me, and Swaran, the foe of strangers. Their, 
words are not in vain, by Loda's stone of power. 
Should Duth-maruno not return, his spouse is lonely 
at home, where meet two roaring streams on Crath- 
mocraulo's plain. Around are hills, with echoing 
woods ; the ocean is rolling near. My son looks on 

♦ Agandecca, the daughter of Starno, whom her father killed, 
on account of her discovering to Fingal a plot laid against his life. 
"t Crumthormoth, one of the Orkney or Shetland iSands 



CATH-LODA. 191 

screaming sea-fowl, a young wanderer on the field. 
Give the head of a boar to Candona, tell him of his 
father's joy, when the bristly strength of U-thorno 
rolled on his lifted spear. Tell him of my deeds in 
war ! Tell where his father fell !'*' 

" Not forgetful of my fathers," said Fingal, " I have 
bounded over the seas. Theirs were the times of dan- 
ger in the days of old. Nor settles darkness on me, 
before foes, though youthful in my locks. Chief of 
Crathmocraulo, the field of night is mine." 

Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide bounding over 
Turthor's stream, that sent its sullen roar, by night, 
through Gormal's misty vale. A moonbeam glittered 
on a rock ; in the midst stood a stately form ; a form 
with floating locks, like Lochlin's white-bosomed maids. 
Unequal are her steps, and short. She throws a 
broken song on wind. At times she tosses her white 
arms : for grief is dwelling in her soul. 

" Torcal-torno, of aged locks," she said, " where 
now are thy steps, by Lulan ? Thou hast failed at 
thine own dark streams, father of Conban-cargla ! But 
I behold thee, chief of Lulan, sporting by Loda's hall, 
when the dark-skirted night is rolled along the sky. 
Thou sometimes hidest the moon with thy shield. I 
have seen her dim, in heaven. Thou kindlest thy 
hair into meteors, and sailest along the night. Why 
am I forgot, in my cave, king of shaggy boars 1 Look 
from the hall of Loda, on thy lonely daughter." 

" Who art thou," said Fingal, " voice of night ?" 

She, trem.bling, turned away. 

" Who art thou, in thy darkness ?" 

She shrunk into the cave. 

The king loosed the thong from her hands. He 
asked about her fathers. 

*' Torcul-torno," she said, " once dwelt at Lulan's 
fosehiy stream : he dwelt — but now, in Loda's hall, ha 



192 THE POEMS or OSSIAN.- 

shakes the sounding shell. He met Starno of Lochlin 
in war ; long fought the dark-eyed kings. My father 
fell, in his blood, blue-shielded Torcul-torno ! By a 
rock, at Lulan's stream, I had pierced the bounding 
roe. My white hand <;athercd my hair from off the 
rushing winds. I heard a noise. Mine eyes were up. 
My soft breast rose on high. My step was forward, 
at Lulan, to meet thee, Torcul-toi-no. It was Starno, 
dreadful king ! His red eyes rolled on me in love. 
Dark waved his shaggy brow, above his gathered 
smile. Where is my father, I so id, he that was mighty 
in war ! Thou art left alone among foes, O daughter 
of Torcul-torno ! He took my haiid. He raised the 
sail. In this cave he placed me dark. At times he 
comes a gathered niist. He lifts before me my fa* 
ther's shield. But often passes a beam of youth far 
distant from my cave. The son of Starno moves in 
my sight. He dwells lonely in my soul."' 

" Maid of Lulan," said Fingal, " white-handed 
daughter of gi-ief ! a cloud, marked with streaks of fire, 
is rolled along my soul. Look not to that dark-robed 
moon ; look not to those meteors of heaven. My 
gleaming steel is around thee, the terror of my foes ! 
It is not the steel of the feeble, nor of the dark in soul ! 
The maids are not shut in our caves Of streams. 
They toss not their white arms alone. They bend 
fair within their locks, above the harps of Selma. 
Their voice is not in the desert wild. We melt along 
the pleasing sound !" 

Fingal again advanced his steps, wide through the 
bosom of night, to where the trees of Loda shook amid 
squally winds. Three stones, with heads of moss, are 
there ; a stream with foaming course : and dreadful, 
rolled around them, is the dark red cloud of Loda. 
High from its top looked forward a ghost, half formed 




By a rock . al Uiljai's streain . I iad pi taxed. the"boTmdmz : 



CATH-LODA. 193 

of the shadowy smoke. He poured his voice, at times, 
amidst the roaring stream. Near, bending beneath a 
blasted tree, two heroes received his words : Swaran 
of lakes, and Starno, foe of strangers. On their dun 
shields they darkly leaned : their spears are forward 
through night. Shrill sounds the blast of darkness in 
Starno 's floating beard. 

They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors rose 
in arms. " Swaran, lay that wanderer low," said Star- 
no, in his pride. '' Take the shield of thy father. It 
is a rock in war." Swaran threw his gleaming spear. 
It stood fixed in Loda's tree. Then came the foes for- 
ward with swords. They mixed their rattling steel. 
Through the thongs of Swaran's shield rushed the 
blade* of Luno. The shield fell rolling on earth. 
Cleft, the helmet fell down. Fingal stopt the lifted 
steel. Wrathful stood Swaran, unarmed. He rolled 
his silent eyes ; he threw his sword on earth. Then, 
slowly stalking over the stream, he whistled as he 
went. 

Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turns 
away in wrath. His shaggy brows were dark above 
his gathered rage. He strikes Loda's tree with his 
spear. He raises the hum of songs. They come to 
the host of Lochlin, each in his own dark path ; like 
two foam-covered streams from two rainy vales ! 

To Turthor's plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the 
beam of the east. It shone on the spoils of Lochlin 
in the hand of the king. From her cave came forth, 
in her beauty, the daughter of Torcul-torno. She 
gathered her hair from wind. She wildly raised her 
song. The song of Lulan of shells, where once her 
father dwelt. She saw Starno's bloody shield. Glad- 



♦ The sword of Fingal, so called from its maker, Luno of 
Lochlin. 

17 



194 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

ness rose, a light, on her face. She saw the cleft hel- 
met of Swaraii. She shrunk, darkened, from Fingal. 
" Art thou fallen by thy hundred streams, O love of the 
mournful maid ?" 

U-thorno that risest in waters ! on whose side are 
the meteors of night ? I behold the dark moon do- 
scending behind thy resounding woods. On thy top 
dwells the misty Loda :" the house of the spirits of men ! 
In the end of his cloudy hall bends forward CruLh-loda 
of swords. His form is dimly seen amid his wavy 
mist. His right hand is on his shield. In his left is 
the half viewless shell. The roof of his dreadful hall 
is marked with nightly fires ! 

The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of form- 
less shades. He reaches the sounding shell to those 
who shone in war. But between him and the feeble, 
his shield rises a darkened orb. He is a setting meteor 
to the weak in arms. Bright as a rainbow on streams, 
came Lulan's white-bosomed maid. 

ARGUMENT OF DUAN II. 

Fingal, returning with daj'', devolves the command on Duth- 
maruno, who engages the enemy, and drives them over the 
stream of Turthor. Slaving recalled his people, he congratulates 
Duth-maruno on his succesr-, but discovers that (hat hero had 
been mortally wounded in the action — Duth-maruno dies. Ulhn, 
the bard, in honor of the dead, introduces the episode of Col- 
gorm and Striua-dona, which concludes this duan. 

" Where art thou, son of the king ?" saio darK- 
haired Duth-maruno. " Where hast thou failed, young 
beam of Selma ? He returns not from the bosom of 
night ! Morning is spread on U-thorno. In his mist 
is the sun on his hill. Warriors, lift the shields in my 
presence. He must not fall like a fire from heaven, 
whose place is not marked on the ground. He comes 
like an eagle, from the skirt of his squally wind ! In 



CATH-LODA. 195 

tiis hand are the spoil of foes. King of Selma, our 
souls were sad !" 

" Near us are the foes, Duth-maruno. They come 
forward, like waves in mist, when their foamy tops are 
seen at times above the low-sailing vapor. The tra- 
/eller shrinks on his journey ; he knows not whither 
to fly. No trembling travellers are we ! Sons of he- 
roes call forth the steel. Shall the sword of Fingal 
arise, or shall a warrior lead ?" 

The deeds of old, said Duth-maruno, are like paths 
to our eyes, O Fingal ! Broad-shielded Trenmor is 
still seen amidst his own dim years. Nor feeble was 
the soul of the king. There no dark deed wandered 
in secret. From their hundred streams came the 
tribes, to glassy Colglan-crona. Their chiefs were 
before them. Each strove to lead the war. Their 
swords were often half unsheathed. Red rolled their 
eyes of rage. Separate they stood, and hummed their 
surly songs. " Why should they yield to each other ? 
their fathers were equal in war." Trenmor was there, 
with his people stately, in youthful locks. He saw the 
advancing foe. The grief of his soul arose. He bade 
the chiefs to lead by turns ; they led, but they were 
rolled away. From his own mossy hill blue-shielded 
Trenmor came down. He led wide-skirted battle, and 
the strangers failed. Around him the dark-browed 
warriors came : they struck the shield of joy. Like a 
'jleasant gale the words of power rushed forth from 
Selma of kings. But the chiefs led by turns, in war, 
till mighty danger rose : then was the hour of the king 
to conquer in the field. 

" Not unknown," said Cromma-glas of shields, " are 
ihe deeds of our fathers. But who shall now lead the war 
Defore the race of kings ? Mist settles on these four dark 
hills : within it let each warrior strike his shield . Spirits 
may descend in darkness, and mark us for the war." 



196 THE POEHS 01- OSSIAN. 

They went each to his hill of mist. Bards marked 
the sounds of the shields. Loudest rung thy boss, 
Duth-maruno. Thou must lead in war ! 

Like the murmurs of waters the race of U-thorno 
came down. Starno led the battle, and Swaran of 
stormy isles. They looked forward from iron shields, 
like Cruth-loda, fiery-eyed, v/hen he looks from behind 
the darkened moon, and strews his signs on night. The 
foes met by Turthor's stream. They heaved like ridgy 
waves.. Their echoing strokes are mixed. Shadowy 
death flies over the hosts. They were clouds of hail 
with squally winds in their skirts. Their showers are 
roaring together. Below them swells the dark-rolling 
deep. 

Strife of gloomy U-thorno, why should I mark thy 
wounds ? Thou art with the years that are gone ; thou 
feidest on r/iy soul ! 

Starno brought forward his skirt of war, and Swaran 
his own dark wing. Nor a harmless fire is Duth- 
maruno's sword. Lochlin is rolled over her streams. 
The wrathful kings are lost in thought. They roll 
their silent eyes over the flight of their land. The 
horn of Fingal was heard ; the sons of woody Albion 
returned. But many lay, by Turthor's stream, silent 
in their blood. 

" Chief of Crathmo," said the king, " Duth-maruno, 
hunter of boars ! not harmless returns my eagle from 
the field of foes ! For this white-bosomed Lanul shall 
brighten at her streams ; Candona shall rejoice as he 
wanders in Crathmo's fields." 

" Colgorm," replied the chief, " was the first of my 
race in Albion ; Colgorm, the rider of ocean ; through 
its watery vales. He slew his brother in Lthorno :*' 
he left the land of his fathers. He chose his place ir» 

* An island of Scandinavia. 



CATH-LODA. 197 

silence, by rocky Crathmo-craulo. His race camo 
forth in their years ; they came forth to war, but they 
always fell. The wound of nny fathers is mine, king 
of echoing isles ! 

He drew an arrow from his side ! He fell pale in a 
land unknown. His soul came forth to his fathers, to 
their stormy isle. There they pursued boars of mist, 
along the skirts of winds. The chiefs stood silent 
around, as the stones of Loda, on their hill. The ti*a- 
veller sees them, through the twilight, from his lonely 
path. He thinks them the ghosts of the aged, forming 
future wars. 

Night came down on U-thorno. Still stood the chiefs 
in their grief. The blast whistled, by turns, through 
every warrior's hair. Fingal, at length, broke forth 
from the thoughts of his soul. He called Ullin of 
harps, and bade the song to rise. "No falling fire, 
that is only seen, and then retires in night; no de- 
parting meteor was he that is laid so low. He was 
like the strong-beaming sun, long rejoicing on his hill. 
Call the names of his fathers from their dwellings old !" 

I-thorno, said the bard, that risest midst ridgy seas ! 
Why is thy head so gloomy in the ocean's mist ? From 
tliy vales came forth a race, fearless as thy strong- 
winged eagles : the race of Colgorm of iron shields, 
dwellers of Loda's hall. 

In Tormoth's resounding isle arose Lurthan, streamy 
lill. It bent its woody head over a silent vale. There, 
tt foamy Cruruth's source, dwelt Rurmar, hunter of 
k)ars ! His daughter was fair as a sunbeam, white- 
bosomed Strina-dona ! 

Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields ; 
many a youth of heavy locks came to Rurmar's echo- 
ing hall. They came to woo the maid, the stately 
huntress of Tormoth wild. But thou lookest careless 
from thy steps, high-bosomed Strinadona ! 
17* 



198 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter 
than the down of cana ;* If on the sea-beat shore, than 
the foam of the rolling ocean. Her eyes were two 
stars of light. Her face was heaven's bow in showers. 
Her dark hair flowed round it, like the streaming clouds. 
Thou wert the dweller of souls, white-handed Strina- 
dona! 

Colgorm came in his ship, and Corcul-suran, king of 
shells. The brothers came from I-thorno to woo the 
sunbeam of Tormoth wild. She saw them in their 
echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on blue-eyed Col- 
gorm. Ul-loclilin'sf nightly eye looked in, and saw 
the tossing arms of Strina-dona. 

Wrathful the brothers frowned. Their flaming eyes 
in silence met. They turned away. They struck 
their shields. Their hands were trembling on their 
swords. They rushed into the strife of heroes for long- 
haired Strina-dona. 

Corcul-suran fell in blood. On his isle raged the 
strength of his father. He turned Colgorm from 
I-thorno, to wander on all the winds. In Crathmo- 
craulo's rocky field he dwelt by a foreign stream. 
Nor darkened the king alone, that beam of light was 
near, the daughter of echoing Tormoth, white armed 
Strina-dona. 



* The cana is a certain kind of grass, which grows plentifully is 
tlie heathy morasses of the north. 
t Ul-Iochlin, " the guide to Lochlin ;" the name of a star. 



CATH-LODA. 199 



ARGUMENT OF DUAN IIL 



Oasian, after some general reflections, describes (lie situation of 
Fingal, and the position of the army of Lochhn. — The conversR. 
tion of Stamo and Svvaran. — The episode of Corman-trunar and 
Foina-bragal. — Starno, tiom his own example, recommends to 
Swaran to surprise Fingal, who had retired alone to a neighbor- 
ing hill. Upon Swaran's refusal, Starno undertakes the enter- 
prise himseh", is overcome and taken prisoner by Fingal. He is 
dismissed, after a severe reprimand for his craelty. 

Whence is the stream of years ? Whither do they roll 
along ? Where have they hid, in mist, their many col- 
ored sides. 

I look unto the times of old, but they seem dim to 
Ossian's eyes, like reflected moonbeams on a distant 
lake. Here rise the red beams of war ! There, silent, 
dwells a feeble race ! They mark no years with their 
deeds, as slow they pass along. Dweller between the 
shields ! thou that awakest the failing soul ! descend 
fi-om thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy voices three ! 
Come with that which kindles the past : rear the forms 
of old, on their own dark-brown years ! 

U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy 
side. Fingal is bending in night over Duth-maruno's 
tomb. Near him are the steps of his heroes, hunters 
of the boar. By Turthor's stream the host of Lochlin 
is deep in siiades. The wrathful kings stood on two 
hills : they looked forward on their bossy shields. 
They looked forv/ard to the stars of night, red wander- 
ing in tlK3 west. " Cruth-loda bends from high, like a 
formless meteor in clouds. He sends abroad the winds, 
and marks them with his signs. Starno foresaw that 
MoTven's king was not to yield in war. 

He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed be- 
fore his son. He hummed a surly song, and heard his 
»ir in wind. Turned from one another, they stood, 



200 THE POEMS OF OSSTAN. 

like two oaks, which different winds had bent ; each 
hangs over his own loud rill, and shakes his boughs in 
the course of blasts. 

" Annir," said Starno of lakes, " was a fire that con- 
sumed of old. He poured death from his eyes along 
the striving fields. His joy was in the fall of men. 
Blood to him was a summer stream, that brings joy to 
the withered vales, from its own mossy rock. He 
came forth to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall 
Corman-trunar, he from Urlor of streams, dweller of 
battle's wing." 

The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal with his 
dark-bosomed ships. He saw the daughter of Annir. 
white-armed Foina-bragal. He saw her ! Nor careles? 
rolled her eyes on the rider of stormy waves. She 
fied to his ship in darkness, like a moonbeam through 
a nightly veil. Annir pursued along the deep ; ho 
called the winds of heaven. Nor alone was the king! 
Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno's young eagle, 
I turned my eyes on my father. 

We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people 
came tall Corman-trunar. We fought ; but the foe pre- 
vailed. In his wrath my father stood. He lopped the 
young trees with his sword. His eyes rolled red in 
his rage. 1 marked the soul of the king, and I retired 
in night. From the field I took a broken helmet ; a 
shield that was pierced with steel ; pointless was the 
spear in my hand. I went to find the foe. 

On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar beside his burnini 
oak ; and near him beneath a tree, sat deep-bosomea 
Foina-bragal. I threw my broken shield before her 
I spoke the words of peace. " Besi'de his rolling sea 
lies Annir of many lakes. The king was pierced ir 
battle ; and Starno is to raise his tomb. Me, a son of 
Loda, he sends to white-handed Foina, to bid her send 
a lock from her hair, to rest with her father in earth. 



CATH-LODA. 201 

And Uiou, king of roaring Urlor, let the battle cease, 
till Annir receive the shell from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda." 

Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock from 
her hair ; a lock, which wandered in the blast, along 
her heaving breast. Corman-trunar gave the she.l, 
and bade me rejoice before him. I rested in the shade 
of night, and hid my face in my helmet deep. Sleep 
descended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking ghost. 
I pierced the side of Corman-trmiar. Nor did Foina- 
bragal escape. She rolled her white bosom in blood. 

Why, then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my 
rage ? 

Morning rose. The foe were fied, like the depart- 
ure of mist. Annir struck his bossy shield. He called 
his dark-haired son. I came, streaked with wandering 
blood : thrice rose the shout of the king, like the burst- 
ing forth of a squall of wind from a cloud by night. 
We rejoiced three days above the dead, and called the 
hawks of heaven. They came from all their winds to 
feast on Annir's foes. Swaran, Fingal is alone in his 
iiill of night. Let thy spear pierce the king in secret ; 
like Annir, my soul shall rejoice. 

" Son of Annir," said Swaran, '' I shall not slay in 
shades : I move forth in light : the hawks rush from all 
their winds. They are wont to trace my course : it is 
not harmless through war." 

Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice raised 
his gleaming spear. But, starting, he spared his son, 
and rushed into the night. By Turthor's stream, a 
cave is dark, the dwelling of Conban-carglas. There 
he laid the helmet of kings, and called the maid of 
Lulan ; but she was distant far in Loda's resounding 
hall. 

Swelling in his rage, he strode to where Fingal lay 
alone. The king was laid on his shield, on his own 
secret hill. 



202 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Stern hunter of shaggy boars ! no feeble maid is lai< 
before thee. No boy on his ferny bed, by Turtbor's 
murmuring stream. Here is spread the couch of the 
mighty, from which they rise to deeds of death ! Hunt- 
er of shaggy boars, awaken not the terrible ! 

Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms. 
" Who art thou, son of night !" Silent he threw the 
spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The shield 
of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak. 
The early beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the 
king. He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He thought 
of other days, when white-bosomed Agandecca moved 
like the music of songs. He loosed the thong from his 
hands. Son of Annir, he said, retire. Retire to Gor- 
mal of shells ; a beam that was set returns. I remem- 
ber thy white-bosomed daughter ; dreadful king, away ! 
Go to thy troubled dwelling, cloudy foe of the lovely ! 
Let the stranger shun thee, thou gloomy in the hall ! 

A tale of the times of old ! 



COMALA, 

A DRAMATIC POEM. 

ARGUMENT. 

This poen. is valuable on account of the light it throws on the an- 
tiquity of Ossian-s compositions. The Caracul mentioned here 
is the same with Caracalla, the son of Severus, who, in the year 
211, commanded an expedition against the Caledonians. The 
variety of the measure shows that the poem was originally set to 
music, and perhaps presented before the chiefs upon solemn 
occasions. Tradition has handed down the story more complete 
than it is in the poem. '' Comala, the daughter of Samo, king 
of Inistore, or Omney Islands, fell in love with Fingalj the son 
of Comhal, at a feast, to which her father had invited him [Fin- 
gal, B. III.] upon his return liom Lochlin, after the death of 
Agandecca. Her passion was so violent, that she followed him, 
disguised Uke a youth, who v.'anted to be employed in his wars. 
She was soon discovered by Hidallan, the son of Lamor, one of 
Fingal's heroes, whose love she had slighted some time before. 
Her romantic passion and beauty reconoinended her so much to 
the king, that lie had resolved to make her his wife ; when news 
was brought him of Caracul's expedition. He marched to stop 
the progress of the enemy, and Comala attended him. He left 
her on a hill, within sight of Caracul's army, when he himself 
went to battle, having previously promised, if he survived, to 
return that night." The sequel of the story may be gathered 
from the poem itself 

The Persons. 

FiNGAL. Melilcoma, } Daughters 
Hidallan. Dersagrena, \ ofMorni. 
Comala. Bards. 

Dersagrena. The chase is over. No noise on 
Erdven but the torrent's roar ! Daughter of Morni, 
come from Crona's banks. Lay down the bow and 
take the harp. Let the night come on with songs ; 
let our joy be great on Ardven. 

Melilcoma. Night comes on apace, thou blue-eyed 
maid ! gray night grows dim along the plain, I saw a 



204 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

deer at Crona's stream ; a mossy bank he seemed 
through the gloom, but soon he bounded away. A 
meteor played round his brandling horns ; the awful 
faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona. 

Dersagrena. These are the signs of Fingal's death. 
The king of shields is fallen ! and Caracul prevails. 
Rise, Comala, from thy rock ; daughter of Sarno, rise 
in tears ! the youth of thy love is low ; his ghost is on 
our hills. 

Melilcoma. There Comala sits forlorn ! two gray 
dogs near shake their rough ears, and catch the flying 
breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the moun- 
tain wind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes 
towards the fields of his promise. Where art thou, O 
Fingal ? The night is gathering around. 

Comala. O Carun of the streams ! why do I behold 
thy waters rolling in blood ? Has the noise of the 
battle been heard ; and sleeps the king of Morven ? 
Rise, moon, thou daughter of the sky ! look from be- 
tween thy clouds; rise, that I may behold the gleam 
of his steel on the field of his promise. Or rather let 
the meteor, that lights our fathers through the night, 
come with its red beam, to show me the way to my 
fallen hero. Who will defend me from sorrow ? Who 
from the love of Hidallan 1 Long shall Comala look 
before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his host ; 
bright as the coming forth of the morning in the cloud 
of an early shower. 

Hidallan. Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell 
on the path of the king ! Hide his steps from mine 
eyes, let me remember my friend no more. The 
bands of battle are scattered, no crowding tread is 
round the noise of his steel. O Carun ! roll thy 
streams of blood, the chief of the people is low. 

Comala. Who fell on Carun's sounding banks, son 
of the cloudy night ? Was he white as the snow of 



COM ALA. 1205 

Ardven ? Blooming as the bow of the shower ? Was 
his hair like the mist of the hill, soft and curling in the 
day of the sun ? Was he like the thunder of heaven 
in battle ? Fleet as the roe of the desert ? 

Hidallan. O that I might behold his love, fair- 
leaning from her rock ! Her red eye dim in tears, 
her blushing cheek half hid in her locks ! Blow, O 
gentle breeze ! lift thou the heavy locks of the maid, 
that I may behold her white arm, her lovely cheek in 
her grief. 

Comala. And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of 
the mournful tale ! The thunder rolls on the hill ! 
The lightning flies on wings of fire ! They frighten 
not Comala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief of the 
mournful tale, fell the breaker of the shields ? 

Hidallan. The nations are scattered on their hills ! 
they shall hear the voice of the king no more. 

Comala. Confusion pursue thee over thy plains ! 
Ruin overtake thee, thou king of the world ! Few be 
thy steps to thy grave ; and let one virgin mourn thee ! 
Let her be like Comala, tearful in the days of her 
youth ! Why hast thou told me, Hidallan, that my 
hero fell 1 I might have hoped a little while his re- 
turn ; I might have thought I saw him on the distant 
rock : a tree might have deceived me with his appear- 
ance ; the wind of the hill might have been the sound 
of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on the banks 
of Carun ; that my tears might be warm on his cheek. 

Hidallan. He lies not on the banks of Carun : on 
Ardven heroes raise his tomb. Look on them, O 
moon ! from thy clouds ; be thy beam bright on his 
breast, that Comala may behold him in the light of his 
armor. 

Comala. Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold 
my love ! He left me at the chase alone. I knew not 
tha,t he went to war. He said he would return with 
18 



206 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

the night; the king of Morven is returned! Why 
didst thou not tell me that he would fall, O trembling 
dweller of the rock ?* Thou sawcst him in the blood 
of his youth ; but thou didst not tell Comala. 

Melilcoma. What sound is that on Ardven ? Who 
is that bright in the vale ? Who comes like the 
strength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter to 
the moon ? 

ComaJa. Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son 
of the king of the world ! Ghost of Fingal ! do thou, 
from thy cloud, direct Comala's bow. Let him fall 
like the hart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd 
of his ghosts. Why dost thou come, my love, to 
frighten and please my soul ? 

Fingal. Raise, ye bards, the song ; raise the wars 
of the streamy Carun ! Caracul has fled from our 
arms along the field of his pride. He sets far distant 
like a meteor, that encloses a spirit of night, when the 
winds drive it over the heath, and the dark woods are 
gleaming around. I heard a voice, or was it the breeze 
of my hills ? Is it the huntress of Ardven, the white- 
handed daughter of Sarno ? Look from the rocks, my 
love ; let me hear the voice of Comala ! 

Comala, Take me to the cave of thy rest, O lovely 
son of death ' 

Fingal. Come to the cave of my rest. The storm 
is past, the sun is on our fields. Come to the cave of 
my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven ! 

Comala. He is returned with his fame ! I feel the 
right hand of his wars ! But I must rest beside the 
rock till my soul returns from my fear ! O let the 
harp be near ! raise the song, ye daughters of Morna. 

Dersagrena. Comala has slain three deer on Ard- 

* By the '* dweller of the rock" she means a Druid. 



COM A LA. 207 

veil, the fire ascends on the rock ; go to the feast of 
Comala, king of the woody Morven ! 

Fi7igaL Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the 
streamy Carun ; that my white-handed maid may re- 
joice : while I behold the feast of my love. 

Bards. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons 
of battle are fled ! the steed is not seen on our fields ; 
the wings of their pride spread on other lands. The 
sun will now rise in peace, and the shadows descend in 
joy. The voice of the chase will be heard ; the shields 
hang in the hall. Our delight will be in the war of 
the ocean, our hands shall grow red in the blood of 
Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons 
of battle fled ! 

Melilcoma. Descend, ye light mists from high ! 
Ye moonbeams, lift her soul ! Pale lies the maid at 
the rock ! Comala is no more ! 

Fingal. Is the daughter of Sarno dead ; the white- 
bosomed maid of my love ? Meet me, Comala, on 
my heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills. 

Hidallan. Ceased the voice of the huntress of 
Ardven? why did I trouble the soul of the maid? 
When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the 
dark-brown hinds ? 

Fingal. Youth of the gloomy brow ! No more 
shalt thou feast in my halls ! Thou shalt not pursue 
my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead 
me to the place of her rest, that I may behold her 
beauty. Pale she lies as the rock, the cold winds lift 
her hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast, her 
arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the 
daughter of Sarno ! give her name to the winds of 
heaven. 

Bards. See ! meteors gleam around the maid ! 
See ! moonbeams lift her soul ! Around her, from 
their clouds, bend the awful faces of her father j Sarno 



20^ THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

of the gloomy brow ! the red-rolling eyes of Fidallan ! 
When shall thy white hand arise ? When shall thy 
voice be heard on our rocks ? The maids shall seek 
thee on the heath, but they shall not find thee. Thou 
shalt come, at times, to their dreams, to settle peace in 
their soul. Thy voice shall remain in their ears, they 
shall think with joy on the dreams of their rest. Me- 
teors gleam around the maid, and moonbeams lift her 
soul ! 



CARRIC-THURA. 



ARGUMENT. 



Finga., returning from an expedition which he had made into the 
Roman province, resolved to visit CathnUa, king of Inistore, and 
brother to Comala, whose story is related at large in the preced- 
ing dramatic poem. Upon his coming in sight of Carric-thura, 
the palace of CathuUa, he observed a flame on its top, which, in 
those days, was a signal of distress. The wind drove him into a 
bay, at some distance from Carric-thura, and he was obliged to 
pass the night on shore. Next day he attacked the army of Fro- 
thai, king of Sora, who had besieged CathuUa in his palace of 
Carric-thura, and took Frothal himself prisoner, after hejiad en- 
gaged him in a single combat. The deliverance of Carric-thura 
IS the subject of the poem ; but several other episodes are inter- 
woven with it. It appears, from tradition, that this poem was 
addressed to a Culdee, or one of the first Christian missionaries, 
and that the story of the spirit of Loda, supposed to be the ancient 
Odin of Scandinavia, was introduced by Ossum in opposition to 
the Culdee's doctrine. Be this as it will, it lets us into Ossian'a 
notions of a superior Bein^j and shows us that he was not ad- 
dicted to the superstition which prevailed all the world over, be- 
fore the introduction of Christianity. 

Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired 
son of the sky ! The west opened its gates ; the bed 
of thy repose is there. The waves come to behold thy 
beauty. They lift their trennbling heads. They see 
thee lovely in thy sleep ; they shrink away with fear. 
Rest in thy shadowy cave, O sun ! lot thy return be in 
joy. 

But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the 
harps of Selma : let the beam spread in the hall, the 
king of shells is returned ! The strife of Crona is past, 
like sounds that are no more. Raise the song, O 
bards ! the king is returned with his fame ! 

Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned 
from war ; when he returned in the fair blushing of 
youth with all his heavy locks. His blue arms were 
18* 



210 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

on the hero ; like a light cloud on the sun, when he 
moves in his robes of mist, and shows but half his 
beams. His heroes followed the king : the feast of 
shells is spread. Fingal turns to his bards, and bids 
the song to rise. 

Voices of echoing Cona ! he said ; O bards of other 
times ! Ye, on whose souls the blue host of our fathers 
rise ! strike the harp in my hall : and let me hear the 
song. Pleasant is the joy of grief; it is like the 
shower of spring when it softens the branch of the oak, 
and the young leaf rears its green head. Sing on, O 
bards ! to-morrow we lift the sail. My blue course is 
through the ocean, to Carric-thura's walls ; the mossy 
walls of Sarno, where Comala dwelt. There the noble 
CathuUa spreads the feast of shells. The boars of his 
woods are many; the sound of the chase shall arise ! 

Cronnan, son of the song ! said Ullin ; Minona, 
graceful at the harp ! raise the tale of Shilric, to please 
the king of Morven. Let Vinvela come in her beauty, 
like the showery bow, when it shows its lovely head 
on the lake, and the setting sun is bright. She comes, 
O Fingal ! her voice is soft, but sad. 

Vinvela. My love is a son of the hill. He pursues 
the flying deer. His gray dogs are panting around 
him ; his bow-string sounds in the wind. Dost thou 
rest by the fount of the rock, or by the noise of the 
mountain stream ? The rushes are nodding to the wind, 
the mist flies over the hill. I will approach my love 
unseen ; I will behold him from the rock. Lovely I 
saw thee first by the aged oak of Branno ; thou wert 
returning tall from the chase ; the fairest among thy 
friends. 

Shilric. What voice is that I hear ? that voice like 
the summer wind ! I sit not by the nodding rushes ; I 
hear not the fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela, afar, 1 
go to the wars of Fingal. My dogs attend me no 



CARRIC-THURA. 211 

more. No more I tread the hill. No more from on 
high I see thee, fair moving by the stream of the plain ; 
bright as the bow of heaven; as the moon on the 
western wave. 

Vinvela. Then thou art gone, O Shilric ! I am 
alone on the hill ! The deer are seen on the brow : void 
of fear they graze along. No more they dread the 
wind ; no more the rustling tree. The hunter is far 
removed, he is in the field of graves. Strangers ! sons 
of the waves ! spare my lovely Shilric ! 

Shilric. If fall I must in the field, raise high my 
grave, Vinvela. Gray stones, and heaped up earth, 
shall mark me to future times. When the hunter shall 
sit by the mound, and produce his food at noon, "some 
warrior rests here," he will say ; and my fame shall 
live in his praise. Remember me, Vinvela, when low 
on earth I lie ! 

Vinvela. Yes ! I will remember thee ! alas ! my 
Shilric Vvill fall ! What shall I do, my love, when thou 
art for ever gone 1 Through these hills I will go at 
noon : I will go through the silent heath. There I will 
see the place of thy rest, returning from the chase. 
Alas ! my Shilric v.'ill fall ; but I will remember 
Shilric. 

And I remember the chief, said the king of woody 
Morven ; he consumed the battle in his rage. But 
now my eyes behold him not. I met him one day on 
the hill ; his cheek was pale : his brow was dark. The 
sigh was frequent in his breast : his steps were towards 
the desert. But now he is not in the crowd of my 
chiefsj when the sounds of my shields arise. Dwells 
he in the narrow house,* the chief of high Carmora 1 

Cronnan ! said Ullin of other times, raise the song 
df Shilric ! when he returned to his hills, and Vinvela 

* The grave. 



212 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

was no more. He leaned on her gray mossy stone ; 
he thought Vinvela Hved. He saw her fair moving on 
the plain ; but the bright form lasted not : the sunbeam 
fled from the field, and she was seen no more. Hear 
the song of Shilric ; it is soft, but sad ! 

I sit by the mossy fountain ; on the top of the hill of 
winds. One tree is rustling above me. Dark waves 
roll over the heath. The lake is troubled below. The 
deer descend from the hill. No hunter at a distance 
is seen. It is mid-day : but all is silent. Sad are my 
thoughts alone. Didst thou but appear, O my love ? a 
wanderer on the heath ? thy hair floating on the wind 
behind thee ; thy bosom heaving on the sight ; thine 
eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mists of the 
hill had concealed ? Thee I would comfort, my love, 
and bring thee to thy father's house ? 

But is it she that there appears, like a beam of ligVit 
on the heath? bright as the moon in autumn, as the 
sun in a summer storm, comest thou, O maid, over 
rocks, over mountains, to me ? She speaks : but how 
weak her voice ! like the breeze in the reeds of the 
lake. 

" Returnest thou safe from the war ? Where are thy 
friends, my love ? I heard of thy death on the hill ; I 
heard and mourned thee, Shilric ! Yes, my fair, I re- 
turn : but I alone of my race. Thou shalt see them 
no more ; their graves I raised on the plain. But 
why art thou on the desert hill ? Why on the heath 
alone ? 

" Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-house. 
With grief for thee I fell. Shilric, I am pale in the 
tomb." 

She fleets, she sails away ; as mist before the wind ' 
and wilt thou not stay, Vinvela ? Stay, and behold my 
tears ! Fair thou appearest, Vinvela ! fair thou wasU 
when alive ! 



CARRIC-THURA. 213 

By the mossy fountain I will sit ; on the top of the 
hills of winds. When mid-day is silent around, O talk 
with me, Vinvela ! come on the light- winged gale ! on 
the breeze of the desert, come ! Let me hear thy voice, 
as thou passest, when mid-day is silent around ! 

Such was the song of Cronnan, on the night of Sel- 
ma's joy. But morning rose in the east ; the blue 
waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails to rise ; 
the winds came rustling from their hills. Inistore rose 
to sight, and Carric-thura's mossy towers ! But the sign 
of distress was on their top : the warning flame edged 
with smoke. The king of Morven struck his breast: 
he assumed at once his spear. His darkened brow 
bends forward to the coast : he looks back to the lag- 
ging winds. His hair is disordered on his back. The 
silence of the king is terrible ! 

Night came down on the sea : Rotha's bay received 
the ship. • A rock bends along the coast with all its 
echoing wood. On the top is the circle of Loda, the 
mossy stone of power ! A narrow plain spreads beneath 
covered with grass and aged trees, which the midnight 
winds, in their wrath, had torn from their shaggy rock. 
The blue course of a stream is there ! the lonely blast 
of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The flame of 
three oaks arose : the feast is spread round ; but the 
soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura^s chief distrest. 

The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep de- 
scended on the youths ! Their blue helmets glitter to 
the beam ; the fading fire decays. But sleep did not 
rest on the king : he rose in the midst of his arms, and 
slowly ascended the hill, to behold the flame of Sarno's 
tower. 

The flame was dim and distant ; the moon hid her 
red face in tiie east. A blast came from the mountain,, 
on its wings was the spirit of Loda. He came to his 
place in his terrors, and shook his dusky spear. His 



314 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

eyes appear like flames in his dark face ; his voice ia 
like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in 
night, and raised his voice on high. 

Son of night, retire ; call thy winds, and fly ! Why 
dost thou come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? 
Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda! 
Weak is thy shield of clouds ; feeble is that meteor, 
thy sword ! The blast rolls them together ; and thou 
thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night ! 
call thy winds, and fly! 

Dost thou force me from my place ? replied the hol- 
low voice. The people bend before me. I turn the 
battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations, 
and they vanish : my nostrils pour the blasts of death. 
I come abroad on the v/inds ; the tempests are before 
my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds ; 
the fields of my rest are pleasant. 

Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king: Let 
Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend from my 
hills into thy peaceful plains ? Do 1 meet thee with a 
spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda ? Why then 
dost thou frown on me ? Why shake thine airy spear? 
Thou frownest in vain : I never fled from the mighty 
in war. And shall the sons of the wind frighten the 
king of Morven ? No ! he knows the weakness of their 



arms 



Fly to thy land, replied the form : receive thy wind 
and fly ? The blasts are in the hollow of my hand ; the 
course of the storm is mine. The king of Sora is m} 
son, he bends at the stone of my power. His battle ir 
around Carric-thura ; and he will prevail ! Fly to thy 
land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath. 

He lifted high his shadowy spear ! He bent forward 
his dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his 
sword ; the blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleam- 
ing path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. 



CARRIC-TIIURA. 215 

The form fell shapeless into the air, like a column of 
smoke, which the staff of the boy disturbs as it rises 
from the half-extinguished furnace. 

The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, 
he rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound. 
The waves heard it on the deep. They stopped in 
\heir course with fear ; the friends of Fingal started at 
once, and took their heavy spears. They missed the 
*iing : they rose in rage ; all their arms resound ! 

The moon came forth in the east. Fingal returned 
in the gleam of his arms. The joy of his youth was 
great, their souls settled, as a sea from a storm. Ullin 
raised the song of gladness. The hills of Inistore re- 
joiced. The flame of the oak arose ; and the tales of 
heroes are told. 

But Frothal Sora's wrathful king sits in sadness be- 
neath a tree. The host spreads around Carric-thura. 
He looks towards the walls with rage. He longs for 
the blood of Cathulla, who once overcame him in v/ar. 
When Annir reigned in Sora, the father of sea-borne 
Frothal, a storm arose on the sea, and carried Frothal 
to Inistore. Three days he feasted in Sarno's halls, and 
saw the slow-rolling eyes of Comala. He loved her in 
the flame of youth, and rushed to seize the white-armed 
maid. Cathulla met the chief. The gloomy battle 
arose. Frothal was bound in the hall : three days he 
pined alone. On the forth, Sarno sent him to his ship, 
and he returned to his land. But wrath darkened in 
his soul against the noble Cathulla. When Annir's 
stone of fame arose, Frothal came in his strength. 
The battle burned round Carric-thura and Sarno's 
mossy walls. 

Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his dark- 
brown shield. His chiefs started at the sound; they 
stood, but their eyes were turned to the sea. They 
saw Fingal coming in his strength ; and first the noble 



216 THE POEMS OF OSSlAN. 

Thubar spoke, " Who comes, like the stag of the desert, 
with all his herd behind him ? Frothal, it is a foe I 1 
see his forward spear. Perhaps it is the king of Moi*- 
ven, Fingal the first of men. His deeds are well known 
in Lochlin ! the blood of his foes is in Sarno's halls. 
Shall I ask the peace of kings ? His sword is the bolt 
of heaven !" 

Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my days 
begin in a cloud ? Shall I yield before I have conquered, 
chief of streamy Tora ? The people would say in Sora, 
Frothal flew forth like a meteor ; but a darkness has 
met him, and his fame is no more. No, Thubar, I will 
never yield ; my fame shall surround me like light. 
No : I will never yield, chief of streamy Tora ! 

He went forth with the stream of his people, but they 
met a rock ; Fingal stood unmoved, broken they rolled 
back from his side. Nor did they safely fly ; the spear 
of the king pursued their steps. The field is covered 
with heroes. A rising hill preserved the foe. 

Fi'othal saw their flight. The rage of his bosom 
rose. He bent his eyes to the ground, and called the 
Moble Thubar. Thubar ! my people are fled. My 
fame has ceased to rise. I will fight the king ; I feel 
my burning soul ! Send a bard to demand the combat. 
Speak not against Frothal's words ! But, Thubar ! I 
love a maid ; she dwells by Thano's stream, the white- 
bosomed daughter of Herman, Utha, with soft-rolling 
eyes. She feared the low-laid Comala ; her secret 
sighs rose when I spread the sail. Tell to Utha of 
harps that my soul delighted in her. 

Such were his words, resolved to fight. The soil 
sigh of Utha was near ! She had followed her hero in 
the armor of a man. She rolled her eye on the youth, 
in secret, from beneath her steel. She saw the bard 
as he went ; the spear fell thrice from her hand ! Her 
loose hair flew on the wind. Her white breast rose 



CARRIC-THURA. 217 

witn signs. She raised her eyes to the king. She 
would speak, but thrice she failed. 

Fingal heard the words of the bard ; he came in the 
strength of his steel. They mixed their deathful spears : 
hey raised the gleam of their arms. But the sword of 
Fingal descended and cut Frothal's shield in twain. 
His fair side is exposed ; half-bent, he foresees his 
death. Darkness gathered on Utha's soul. The '<«ear 
rolled down her cheek. She rushed to cover the chief 
with her shield : but a fallen oak met her steps. She 
fell on her arm of snow ; her shield, her helmet flew 
wide. Her white bosom heaved to the sigh ; her dark- 
brown hair is spread on earth. 

Fingal pitied the white-armed maid ! he stayed the 
uplifted sword. The tear was in the eye of the king, 
as, bending forward, he spoke, " King of streamy Sora! 
fear not the sword of Fingal. It was never stained 
with the blood of the vanquished ; it never pierced a 
fallen foe. Let thy people rejoice by their native 
streams. Let the maid of thy love be glad. Why 
shouldst thou fall in thy youth, king of streamy Sora V* 
Frothal heard the words of Fingal, and saw the rising 
maid : they* stood in silence, in their beauty, like two 
young trees of the plain, when the shower of spring is 
on their leaves, and. the loud winds are laid. 

Daughter of Herman, said Frothal, didst thou come 
from Tora's streams ? didst thou come in thy beauty 
to behold thy warrior low ? But he was low before the 
mighty, maid of the slow-rolling eye ! The feeble did 
not overcome the son of car-borne Annir ! Terrible art 
thou, O king of Morven ! in battles of the spear. But, 
in peace, thou art like the sun when he looks through 
a silent shower ; the flowers lift their fair heads before 
him ; the gales shake their rustling wings. O that thou 

* Frothal and Uthft 
19 



218 THE POEMS or OSSIAN. 

wert in Sora ! that my feast were sipread ! The futuro 
kings of Sora would see thy arms and rejoice. They 
would rejoice at the fame of their fathers, who beheld 
the mighty Fingal ! 

Son of Annir, replied the king, the fame of Sora's 
race shall be heard ! When chiefs are strong in war, 
then does the song arise ! But if their swords are 
stretched over the feeble ; if the blood of the weak has 
stained tiieir arms ; the bard shall forget them in the 
song, and their tombs shall not be known. The stran- 
ger shall come and build there, and remove the heaped- 
up earth. An half-worn sword shall rise before him ; 
bending above it, he will say, " These are the arms of 
the chiefs of old, but their names are not in song." 
Come thou, O Frothal ! to the feast of Inistore : let the 
maid of thy love be there ; let our faces brighten with 

joy-' 

Fingal took his spear, moving in the steps of his 
might. The gates of Carric-thura are opened wide. 
The feast of shells is spread. The soft sound of music 
arose. Gladness brightened in the hall. The voice 
of Ullin was heard ; the harp of Selma was strung. 
Utha rejoiced in his presence, and demanded the song 
of grief; the big tear hung in her eye when the soft 
Crimora spoke. Crimora, the daughter of Rinval, who 
dwelt at Lotha's roaring stream ! The tale was long, 
but lovely ; and pleased the blushing Utha. 

Crimora. Who cometh from the hill, like a cloud 
tinged with the beam of the west ? Whose voice is 
that, loud as the wind, but pleasant as the harp of Car- 
ril ? It is my love in the light of steel ; but sad is his 
darkened brow ! Live the mighty race of Fingal ? or 
what darkens Connal's soul ? 

Connal. They live. They return from the chase 
like a stream of light. The sun is on their shields. 
Like a ridge of fire they descend the hill. Loud is the 



CARRIC-THURA. 210 

voico of the youth ! the war, my love, is near ! To- 
morrow the dreadful Dargo comes to try the force of 
our race. The race of Fingal he defies ; the race of 
battles and wounds ! * 

Crimora. Connal, I saw his sails like gray mist on 
the dark-brown wave. They slowly came to land. 
Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo. 

Connal. Bring me thy father's shield, the bossy iron 
shield of Rinval ! that shield like the full-orbed moon, 
when she moves darkened through heaven. 

Crimora. That shield I bring, Connal ! but it did 
not defend my father. By the spear of Gormar he fell. 
Thou mayst fall, O Connal ! 

Connal. Fall I may ! but raise my tomb, Crimora! 
Gray stones, a mound of earth, shall send my name to 
other times. Bend thy red eye over my grave, beat 
thy mournful heaving breast. Though fair thou art, 
my love, as the light ; more pleasant than the gale of 
the hill ; yet I will not hear remain. Raise my tomb, 
Crimora ! 

Crimora. Then give me those arms that gleam ; 
that sword and that spear of steel. I shall meet Dargo 
with Connal, and aid him in the fight. Farewell, ye 
rocks of Ardven ! ye deer ! and ye streams of the hill ! 
We shall return no more ! Our tombs are distant far ! 

"And did they return no more ?" said Utha's burst- 
ing sigh. " Fell the mighty in battle, and did Crimora 
live 1 Her steps were lonely ; her soul was sad for 
Connal. Was he not young and lovely ; like the beam 
of the setting sun 1 Ullin saw the virgin's tear, he took 
the softly trembling harp ; the song was lovely, but sad, 
and silence was in Carric-thura. 

Autumn is dark on the mountains ; gray mist rests 
on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. 
Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree 
stands alone on the hill, and marks the slumbering 



220 TIIK POKMS OV OSSIAN. 

Connal. Tho leaves whirl round with tlie wind, and 
strew the grave of the dead. At times are seen here 
the ghosts of the departed, when the musing hunter 
alone stalks slowly over the heath. 

Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal ! 
who recount thy fathers ? Thy family grew like an oak 
on the mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty 
head. But now it is torn from the earth. Who shall 
supply the place of Connal ? Here was the din of arms ; 
here the groans of the dying. Bloody are the wars of 
Fingal, O Connal ! it was here thou didst fall. Thine 
arm was like a storm ; thy sword a beam of the sky ; 
thy height a rock on the plain ; thine eyes a furnace of 
fire. Louder than a storm was thy voice, in the battles 
of thy steel. Warriors fell by thy sword, as the thistles 
by the staff of a boy. Dargo the mighty came on, 
darkened in his rage. His brows were gathered into 
wrath. His eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright 
rose their swords on each side ; loud was the clang of 
their steel. 

The daughter of Rinval was near ; Crimora bright 
m the armor of man ; her yellow hair is loose behind, 
her bow is in her hand. She followed the youth to the 
war, Connal her much-beloved. She drew the string 
on Dargo ; but, erring, she pierced her Connal. He 
falls like an oak on the plain ; like a rock from the 
shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless maid ? He 
bleeds ; her Connal dies ! All the night long she cries, 
and all the day, "O Connal, my love, and my friend !'* 
With grief the sad mourner dies ! Earth here encloses 
the loveliest pair on the hill. The grass grows between 
the stones of the tomb: I often sit iii the mournful shade. 
The wind sighs through the grassy their memory rushes 
on my mind. Undisturbed you now sleep together ; 
in the tomb of the mountain you rest alone ! 

And soft be their rest, said Utha, hapless children of 



CARRIC-THURA. 221 

Streamy Lotha ! I will remember them with tears, and 
my secret song shall rise ; when the wind is in the 
groves of Tora, when the stream is roaring near. 
Then shall they come on my soul, with all their lovely 
grief ! 

Three days feasted the kings: on the fourth their 
white sails arose. The winds of the north drove Fin- 
gal to Morven's woody land. But the spirit of Loda 
sat in his cloud behind the ships of Frothal. He hung 
forward with all his blasts, and spread the white-bo- 
somed sails. The wounds of his form were not for- 
gotten ! he still feared the hand of the king ! 
19* 



CARTHON. 

ARGUMENT. 

This poem is complete, and the subject of it, as of most of Ossian*B 
compositions, tragical. In the time of Corahal, the son of Tra- 
thal, and father of ihe celebrated Fingal, Clessammor, the son of 
Thaddu, and brother of Morna, Fingal's mother, was driver by a 
storm into the river Clyde, on the banks of which stood Balclutha, 
a town belonging to the Britons, between the walls. He was 
hospitably received by lleuthamir, the principal man in the place, 
who gave him Moina, his only daughter, in marriage. Reudo, 
the son of Cormo, a Briton, who was in love with Moina, came 
to Reuthamir's house, and behaved haughtily to\yards Clessam- 
mor. A quarrel ensued, in which Reuda was killed ; the Brit- 
ons who attended him, pressed so hard on Clessammor, that he 
was obliged to throw himself into the Clyde and swim to his ship. 
He hoisted .^^ail, and the wind being favorable, bore him out to 
sea. He olten endeavored to return, and carry off his beloved 
Moina by night ; but the wind continuing contrary, he was forced 
to desist. 

Moina, who had been left with child by her husband, brought forth 
a son, and died .socn after. Reuthamir named the child Carthon, 
i. e., "the murmur of waves," from the storm which carried ofl' 
Clessammor his father, who was supposed to have been cast 
away. When Carthon was three years old, Comhal, the father 
of Fmgal, in one of his expeditions against the Britons, took and 
burnt Balclulha. Reuthamir was killed in the attack ; and Car- 
thon was carried safe away by his nurse, who fled farther into 
the country of the Britons. Carthon, coming to man's estate, 
was resolved to revenge the fall of Balclutha on Comhal's pos- 
terity. He set sail from the Clyde, and faUing on the coast of 
Moi-ven, defeated two of Fingal's heroes, who came to oppose his 
progress. He was, at last, unwittingly killed by his father Cles- 
sammor, in a single combat. This story is the foundation of the 
present poem, which opens on the night preceding the death of 
Carthon. so that what passed before is introduced by way of epi- 
sode. The poem is addressed to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar. 

A TALE of the times of ok] ! The dccd.s of clays of 
other years. 

The murmur of thy streams, O Lora ! brings back 
the memory of the past. The sound of thy woods, 
Garmaller, is lovely in mine car. Dost thou not be- 



CARTHON. 223 

hold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath ! Three 
aged pines bend from its face ; green is the narrow 
plain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain 
grows, and shakes its white head in the breeze. The 
thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard. Two 
stones, half sunk in the ground, show their heads of 
moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for 
he beholds a dim ghost standing there. The mighty 
lie, O Malvina ! in the narrow plain of the rock. 

•A tale of the times of old ! The deeds of days of 
other years ! 

Who comes from the land of strangers, with his 
thousands around him ? The sunbeam pours its bright 
stream before him ; his hair meets the wind of his hills. 
His face is settled from war. He is calm as the even- 
ing beam that looks from the cloud of the west, on 
Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Comhal's son, the 
king of mighty deeds ! He beholds the hills with joy, 
he bids a thousand voices rise. "Ye have fled over 
your fields, ye sons of the distant land ! The king of 
the world sits in his hall, and hears of his people's 
flight. He lifts his red eye of pride ; he takes his 
father's sword. Ye have fled over your fields, sons of 
the distant land ! 

Such were the words of the bards, when they came 
to Selma's halls. A thousand lights from the stranger's 
land rose in the midst of his people. The feast is 
spread around ; the night passed away in joy. Where 
is the noble Clessammor ? said the fair-haired Fingal. 
Where is the brother of Morna, in the hour of my joy ? 
Sullen and dark, he passes his days in the vale of echo- 
ing Lora : but, behold, he comes from the hill, like a 
steed in his strength, who finds his companions in the 
breeze, and tosses his bright mane in the wind. Blest 
be the soul of Clessammor, why so long from Sclma? 

Returns the chief, «aid Clessdmmor, in the midst of 



224 thje; roEMs of ossian. 

his fame? l^hr'wis Sie renown of Comhal in ike 
battles of his youth. Oilen did we pass over Carun to 
the land of the strangers : our swords returned, not 
unstained with blood: nor did the kings of the world 
rejoice, ^^^v'^o ^ remember the times of our war? 
My hail is rr.ixo^i with gray. My hand forgets to bend 
the bow : I lift a lightei' ^ese^ O that my joy would 
return, as when ^ first beheld the maid ; the white- 
bosomed daughter of strangers, Moina, with the dark- 
blue eyes ! 

Tell, said the mighty Fingal, the tale of thy youthful 
days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul 
of Clessammor. Mournful are thy thoughts, alone, on 
the banks of the xpq^ring Lora. Let us hear the sor- 
row of thy youth anc[ the darkness of thy days ! 

" It was in the days of peace," replied the great Cles- 
sammor, " I came in my bounding ship to Balclutha's 
walls of towers. The winds had roared behind my 
sails, and Clutha's streams received my dark-bosomed 
ship. Three days I remained in Reuthamir's halls, 
and saw his daughter, that beam of light. The joy of 
the shell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair. 
Her breasts were like foam on the waves, and her eyes 
like stars of light ; her hair was dark as the raven's 
wing : her soul was generous and mild. My love for 
Moina was great ; my heart poured forth in joy. 

" The son of a stranger came ; a chief who loved 
the white-bosomed Moina. His words were mighty in 
the hall ; he often half-unsheathed his sword. ' Where,' 
said he, ' is the mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer 
of the heath ? Comes he, with his host, to Balclutha, 
since Clessammor is so bold ?' My soul, I replied, O 
warrior ! burns in a light of its own. I stand without 
fear in the midst of thousands, though the valiant are 
distant far. Stranger ! thy words are mighty, for Cles- 
sammor is alone. But mv sword trembles by my siile, 



CARTHON. 225 

and longs to glitter in my hand. Speak no more of 
Comhal, son of the winding Clutha ! 

" The strength of his pride arose. We fought : he 
fell beneath my sword. The banks of Chr.lia heard his 
fall; a thousand spears glittered around. I fought: 
the strangers prevailed : I plunged into the stream of 
Clutha. My white sails rose over the waves, and I 
bounded on the dark-blue sea. Moina came to the 
shore, and rolled the red eye of her tears ; her loose 
hair flew on the wind ; and I heard her mournful, dis- 
tant cries. Often did I turn my ship ; but the winds 
of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I 
seen, nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell in 
Balclutha, for I have seen her ghost. I knew her as 
she came through the dusky night, along the murmur 
of Lora : she was like the new moon, seen through the 
gathered mist; when the sky pours down its flaky 
snow, and the world is silent and dark." 

Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the praise 
of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, 
to our hills, that she may rest with the fair of Morven, 
the sunbeams of other days, the delight of heroes of 
old. I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were 
desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls : and 
the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream 
of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the 
walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head: the 
moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from 
the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round 
its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is 
in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourn- 
ing, O bards, over the land of strangers. They have 
but fallen before us : for one day we must fall. Why 
dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days ? Thou 
lookest from thy towers to-day : yet a few years, and 
the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty 



226 THE rOEML OF OSSIAN. 

court, and whistles round thy half- worn shield. And 
let the blast of the desert come ! we shall be renowned 
in our day ! The mark of my arm shall be in battle ; 
my name in the song of bards. Raise the song, send 
round the shell : let joy be heard in my hall. When 
thou, sun of heaven ! shalt fail ; if thou shalt fail, thou 
mighty light ! if thy brightness is for a season, like Fin- 
gal ; our fame shall survive thy beams. 

Such was the song of Fingal in the day of his joy. 
His thousand bards leaned forward from their seats, to 
hear the voice of the king. It was like the music of 
harps on the gale of the spring. Lovely were thy 
thoughts, O Fingal ! why had not Ossian the strength 
of thy soul ? But thou standest alone, my father ! who 
can equal the king of Selma ? 

The night passed away in song ; morning returned 
in joy. The mountains showed their gray heads ; the 
blue face of ocean smiled. The white wave is seen 
tumbling round the distant rock ; a mist rose slowly 
from the lake. It came, in the figure of an aged man, 
along the silent plain. Its large limbs did not move in 
steps, for a ghost supported it in mid air. It came 
towards Selma's hall, and dissolved in a shower of 
blood. 

The king alone beheld the sight ; he foresaw the 
death of the people. He came in silence to his hall, 
and took his father's spear. The mail rattled on his 
breast. The heroes rose around. They looked in 
silence on each other, marking the eyes of Fingal. 
They saw battle in his face ; the death of armies on 
his spear. A thousand shields at once are placed on 
their arms ; they drew a thousand swords. The hall 
of Selma brightened around. The clang of arms as- 
cends. The gray dogs howl in their place. No word 
is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked the eyes 
of the king and half-assumed his spear. 



CARTHON. 227 

Sons of Morven, began the king, this is no time to 
fill the shell ; the battle darkens near us, death hovers 
over the land. Some ghost, the friend of Fingal, has 
forewarned us of the foe. The sons of the stranger 
come from the darkly rolling sea ; for from the water 
came the sign of Morven's gloomy danger. Let each 
assume his heavy spear, each gird on his father's sword. 
Let the dark helmet rise on every head ; the mail pour 
its lightning from every side. The battle gathers like 
a storm ; soon shall ye hear the roar of death. 

The hero moved on before his host, like a cloud be- 
fore a ridge of green fire, when it pours on the sky of 
night, and mariners foresee a storm. On Cona's rising 
heath they stood : the white-bosomed maids beheld them 
above like a grove ; they foresaw the death of the 
youth, and looked towards the sea with fear. The 
white wave deceived them for distant sails ; the tear is 
on their cheek ! The sun rose on the sea, and we be- 
held a distant fleet. Like the mist of ocean they came 
and poured their youth upon the coast. The chief was 
among them, like the stag in the midst of the herd. 
His shield is studded with gold ; stately strode the king 
of spears. He moved towards Selma ; his thousands 
moved behind. 

Go, with a song of peace, said Fingal : go, Ullin, to 
the king of swords. Tell him that we are mighty in 
war ; that the ghosts of our foes are many. But re- 
nowned are they who have feasted in my halls ; they 
show the arms of my fathers in a foreign land ; the 
sons of the strangers wonder, and bless the friends 
of Morven's race ; for our nanies have been heard 
afar : the kings of the world shook in the midst of their 
host. 

Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his 
spear : he saw the mighty foe in his armor : he blest 
the stranger's son. " How stately art thou, son of tho 



228 IHE POEMS OF OSSIAK. 

sea!'* said the king of woody Morven. "Thy sword 
is a beam of fire by thy side ; thy spear is a pine that 
defies the storm. The varied face of the moon is not 
broader than thy shield. Ruddy is thy face of youth! 
soft the ringlets of thy hair ! But this tree may fall, 
and his memory be forgot ! The daughter of the stran- 
ger will be sad, looking to the rolling sea : the children 
will say, ' We see a ship ; perhaps it is the king of 
Balclutha.' The tear starts from their mother's eye : 
her thoughts are of him who sleeps in Morven !" 

Such were the words of the king when Ullin came to 
the mighty Car then : he threw down the spear before 
him, he raised the song of peace. "Come to the feast 
of Fingai, Carthon, from the rolling sea ! partake of the 
feast of the king, or lift the" spear of war ! The ghosts 
of our foes are many : but renowned are the friends of 
Morven ! Behold that field, O Carthon ! many a green 
hill rises there, with mossy stones and rustling grass ; 
these are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the sons of the 
rolling sea !" 

" Dost thou speak to the weak in arms !" said Car- 
thon, " bard of the woody Morven ? Is my face pale for 
fear, son of the peaceful song ? Why then dost thou 
think to darken my soul with the tales of those who fell ? 
My arm has fought in battle, my renown is known afar. 
Go to the feeble in arms, bid them yield to Fingai. Have 
not I seen the fallen Balclutha ? And shall I feast with 
Comhal's son ? Comhal, who threw his fire in the midst of 
my father's hall ? I was young, and knew not the cause 
why the virgins wept. The columns of smoke pleased 
mine eye, when they rose above my walls ! I often 
looked back with gladness when my frie.^ds flew along 
the hill. But when the years of my youth came on, I 
beheld the moss of my fallen walls. My sigh arose 
with the morning, and my tears descended with night. 
Shall I not fight, I said to my soul; against the children 



CARTHON. 229 

of my foes ? And I will fightj O bard ! 1 feel the 
strength of my soul !" 

His people gathered around the hero^ and drew at 
once their shining swords. He stands in the midst, 
like a pillar of fire, the tear half-starting from his eye, 
for he thought of the fallen Balclutha. The crowded 
pride of his soul arose. Sidelong he looked up to the 
hill, where our heroes shone in arms : the spear trem- 
bled in his hand. Bending forward, he seemed to 
threaten the king. 

Shall I, said Fingal to his soul, meet at once the 
youth ? Shall I stop him in the midst of his course be- 
fore his fame shall arise ! But the bard hereafter may 
say, when he sees the tomb of Carthon, Fingal took 
his thousands to battle, before the noble Carthon fell. 
No : bard of the times to come ! thou shalt not lessen 
Fingal's fame ! my heroes will fight the youth, and 
Fingal behold the war. If he overcomes, I rush, in 
my strength, like the roaring stream of Cona. Who 
of my chiefs will meet the son of the rolling sea ? Many 
are his warriors on the coast, and strong is his ashen 
spear ! 

Cathul rose in his strength, the son of the mighty 
Lormar : three hundred youths attend the chief, the 
race of his native streams. Feeble was his arm against 
Carthon : ho fell, and his heroes fled. Connal resumed 
tlie battle, but he broke his heavy spear : he lay bound 
on the field : Carthon pursued his people. 

Clessammor, said the king of Morven, where is the 
spear of thy strength ? Wilt thou behold Connal bound : 
thy friend at the stream of Lora ? Rise, in the light of 
thy steel, companion of valiant Comhal ! let the youth 
of Balclutha feel the strength of Morven's race. He 
rose in the strength of his steel, shaking his grisly 
locks. He fitted the steel to his side ; he rushed in 
the pride of valor. 

20 



230 THE POEMS OF OSS ; AN. 

Carthon stood on a rock : he saw the hero rushing 
on. He loved the dreadful joy of his face : his strength 
in the locks of age ! " Shall I lift that spear/' he said, 
" that never strikes but once a foe ? Or shall I, with 
the words of peace, preserve the warrior's life ? Stately 
arc his steps of age ! lovely the remnant of his years ! 
Perhaps it is the husband of Moina, the father of car- 
borne Carthon. Often have I heard that he dwelt at 
the echoing stream of Lora." 

Such were his words when Clessammor came, and 
lifted high his spear. The youth received it on his 
shield, and spoke the words of peace. "Warrior of 
the aged locks ! is there no youth to lift the spear ? 
Hast thou no son to raise the shield before his father 
to meet the arm of youth ? Is the spouse of thy love 
no more ? or weeps she over the tombs of thy sons ? 
Art thou of the kings of men ? What will be the fame 
of my sword shouldst thou fall ?" 

It will be great, thou son of pride ! begun the tall 
Clessammor. I have been renowned in battle, but I 
never told my name to a foe.* Yield to me, son of 
the wave, then shalt thou know that the mark of my 
sword is in many a field. " I never yielded, king of 
spears !" replied the noble pride of Carthon : " I have 
also fought in war, I behold my future fame. Despise 
me not, thou chief of men ! my arm, my spear is strong. 
Retire among thy friends ; let younger heroes fight.'' 
Why dost thou wound my soul ? replied Clessammor, 
with a tear. Age does not tremble on my hand. I still 
can lift the sword. Shall I fly in Fingal's sight, in the 



♦ To tell one's name to an enemy, was reckoned, in tliose days 
of heroism, a manifest evasion ot" righting him ; for if it was once 
known that friendsliip subsisted of old, between the ancestors of the 
combatants, the battle immediately ceased, and the ancient amity 
of their forefathers was renewed. " A man who tells his name to 
his enemy," was of old an ignominious term for a coward. 



f'AKTHO^. 231 

sight of him I love ? Son of the sea ! I never fled : exalt 
thy pointed spear. 

They fought like two contending winds, that strive 
to roll the wave. Carthon bade his spear to err ; he 
still thought that the foe was the spouse of Moina. lie 
broke Clessammor's beamy spear in twain : he seized 
his shining sword. But as Carthon was binding the 
chief, the chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He 
saw the foe's uncovered side, and opened there a 
wound. 

Fingal saw Clessammor low : he moved in the sound 
of his steel. The host stood silent in his presence : 
they turned their eyes to the king. He came like the 
sullen noise of a storm before the winds arise : the 
hunter hears it in the vale, and retires to the cave of 
the rock. Carthon stood in his place, the blood is 
rushing down his side : he saw the coming down of the 
king, his hopes of fame arose, but pale was his cheek : 
his hair flew loose, his helmet shook on high : the force 
of Carthon failed, but his sword was strong. 

Fingal beheld the hero's blood ; he stopt the uplifted 
spear. " Yield, king of swords !" said Comhal's son, 
'* 1 behold thy blood ; thou hast been mighty in battle, 
and thy fame shall never fade." Art thou the king so 
far renowned ? replied the car-borne Carthon : art thou 
that light of death, that frightens the kings of the world ? 
But why should Carthon ask 1 for he is like the stream 
of his hills, strong as a river in his course, swift as the 
eagle of heaven. that I had fought with the king, 
that my fame might be great in song ! that the hunter, 
behdding my tomb, might say, he fought with the 
mighty Fingal. But Carthon dies unknown : he has 
poured out his force on the weak. 

"But thou shalt not die unknown, replied the king of 
woody Morven : my bards are many, O Carthon ! their 
songs desce.'id to future times. The children of years 



232 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

to come shall hear the fame of Carthon, ^>'hen they sit 
round the burning oak, and the night is spent in songs 
of old. The hunter, sitting in the heath, shall hear the 
rustling blast, and raising his eyes, behold the rock 
where Carthon fell. He shall turn to his son, and show 
the place where the mighty fought : There the king 
of Balclutha fought, like the strength of a thousand 
streams." 

Joy rose in Carthon's face ; he lifted his heavy eyes. 
He gave his sword to Fingal, to lie within his hall, that 
the memory of Balclutha's king might remain in Mor- 
ven. The battle ceased along the field, the bard had 
sung the song of peace. The chiefs gathered round 
the falling Carthon ; they heard his words with sighs. 
Silent they leaned on their spears, while Balclutha's 
hero spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his voice 
was sad and low. 

" King of Morven," Carthon said, " I fall in the midst 
of my course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the 
last of Reuthamir's race. Darkness dwells in Bal- 
clutha; the shadows of grief in Crathm.o. But raise 
my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my fa- 
thers dwelt. Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn 
over his fallen Carthon." His words reached the heart 
of Clessammor : he fell in silence on his son. The host 
stood darkened around : no voice is on the plain. Night 
came : the moon, from the east, looked on the mourn- 
ful field ; but still they stood, like a silent grove that 
lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, 
and dark autumn is on the plain. 

Three days they mourned above Carthon ; on the 
fourth his father died. In the narrow plain of the rock 
they lie ; a dim ghost defends their tomb. There 
lovely Moina is often seen, when the sunbeam darts on 
the rock, and all around is dark. There she is seen, 
Malvina; but not like the daughters of the hill. Her- 



CARTHON. 233 

robes are from the stranger's land, and she is still 
alone ! 

Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his 
bards to mark the day when shadowy autumn returned ; 
and often did they mark the day, and sing the hero's 
praise. " Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like 
autumn's shadowy cloud ? Death is trembling in his 
hand ! his eyes are flames of fire ! Who roars along 
darK Lord's heath ? Who but Carthon, king of swords ! 
The people fall ! see how he strides like the sullen 
ghost of Morven ! But there he lies, a goodly oak which 
sudden blasts overturned ! When shalt thou rise, Bal- 
clutha's joy ? When, Carthon, shalt thou arise ? Who 
comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shad- 
owy cloud?" Such were the words of the bards in the 
day of their mourning ; Ossian often joined their voice, 
and added to their song. My soul has been mournful 
for Carthon : he fell in the days of his youth ; and thou, 

Clessammor ! where is thy dwelling in the wind ? 
Has the youth forgot his wound ? Flies he on clouds 
with thee '? I feel the sun, O Malvina ! leave me to my 
rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams : I think 

1 hear a feeble voice ! The beam of heaven delights to 
shine on the grave of Carthon : I feel it warm around. 

O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my 
fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy everlast- 
ing light ! Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty ; the 
stars hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold and 
pale, sinks in the western wave ; but thou thyself mov- 
est alone. Who can be a companion of thy course ? 
The oaks of the mountains fall ; the mountains them- 
selves decay with years ; the ocean shrinks and grows 
again ; the moon herself is lost in heaven : but thou 
art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy 
course. When the world is dark with tempests, when 
thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thv 
"20* 



234 THE I'OEMS OF OSSIAN. 

beauty from the clouds, and laughest fit the storm, 
But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy 
beams no more : whether thy yellow hair flows on the 
eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the 
west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season ; 
thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy 
clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult 
then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth ! age is dark 
and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the 
moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the 
mist is on the hills : the blast of the north is on the 
plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. 



OINA-MORUL. 

ARGUMENT. 

After an address tc Malvina, the daughter of Toacar, Ossian pro- 
ceeds to relate his own expedition to Fuiirfed, an island of Scan- 
dinavia. Mal-orchol, king of Fuarfed, being hard preyed in war 
by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronto (who had demanded in vain 
the daughter of Mal-orchol in marriage,) Fingal sent Ossian to 
his aid. Ossian, on the day after his arrival, came to battle with 
Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-orchol offers hia 
daughter, Oina-morul, to Ossian ; but he, discovering her passion 
for Ton-thormod, generously surrenders her to her lover, and 
brings about a reconciUation between the two kings. 

As flies the inconstant sun over Larmon's grassy 
hill, so pass the tales of old along my soul by night ! 
When bards are removed to their place, when harps are 
hung in Selma's hall, then comes a voice to Ossian, 
and awakes his soul ! It is the voice of years that are 
gone ! they i-oll before me with all their deeds ! I seize 
the tales as they pass, and pour them forth in song. 
Nor a troubled stream is the song of the king, it is like 
the rising of music from Lutha of the strings. Lutha 
of many strings, not silent are thy streamy rocks, when 
the white hands of Malvina move upon the harp ! Light 
of the shadowy thoughts that fly across my soul, daugh- 
ter of Toscar of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song ? 
We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled 
away ! It was in the days of the king, while yet my 
locks were young, that I marked Con-cathlin* on high, 
from ocean's nightly wave. My course was towards 
the isle of Fuarfed, woody dweller of seas ! Fingal had 
sent me to the aid Mal-orchol, king of Fuarfed wild : 



* Con-cathUn, "mild beam of the wave." What star was so 
called of old is not easily a.<?certained. Some now distingtush i\x9 
pole-vtar by that name. 



236 THE POEMS OE OtSSlAN. 

for war was arouod him, and our fathers had met at 
the feast. 

In Col-coiled I bound my sails. I sent my sword to 
Mal-orchol of shells. He knew the signal of Albion, 
and his joy arose. He came from his own high hall, 
and seized my hand in grief. " Why comes the race- 
of heroes to a falling king ? Ton-thormod of many 
spears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He saw and 
ioved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-morul. He 
sought. I denied the maid, for our fathers had been 
foes. He came with battle to Fuarfed ; my people are 
rolled away. Why comes the race of heroes to a fall- 
ing king?" 

I come not, I said, to look, like a boy, on the strife. 
Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall for strangers. 
From his waves the warrior descended on thy woody 
isle : thou wert no cloud before him. Thy feast was 
spread with songs. For this my sword shall rise. ;i!';i 
thy foes perhaps may fail. Our friends are not lur^^jt 
in their danger, though distant is our land. 

" Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words are 
like the voice of Cruth-Loda, when he speaks from his 
parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky ! Many have 
rejoiced at my feast ; but they all have forgot Mal- 
orchol. I have looked towards all the winds, but no 
white sails were seen ! but steel resounds in my hall» 
and not the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race 
of heroes ! dark-skirted night is near. Hear the voice 
of songs from the maid of Fuarfed wild." 

We went. On the harp arose the white hands ot 
Oina-morul. She waked her own sad tale from every 
trembling string. I stood in silence ; for bright in hci 
locks was the daughter of many isles ! Her eyes werft 
two stars, looking forward through a rushing shower, 
The mariner marks them on high, and blesses the lovely 
beams. With morning we rushed to battle, to Tormul's 



OINA-MORUL. 237 

resounding stream : the foe moved to the sound of Ton- 
thormod's bossy shield. From wing to wing the strife 
was mixed. I met Ton-thormod in fight. Wide flew 
his broken steel. I seized the king in war. I gave 
his hand, fast bound with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the 
giver of shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuarfed, for 
the foe had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away 
from Oina-raorul of isles. 

Son of Fingal, began Mal-orchol, not forgot shalt thou 
pass from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship, Oina- 
morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle gladness 
along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded shall the maid 
move in Selma through the dwelling of kings. 

In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half 
closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear. It was 
like the rising breeze, that whirls at first the thistle's 
beard, then flies dark-shadowy over the grass. It was 
the maid of Fuarfed wild ! she raised the nightly song ; 
she knew that my soul was a stream that flowed at 
pleasant sounds. " Who looks," she said, " from his 
rock on ocean's closing mist ? His long locks like the 
raven's wing, are wandering on the blast. — Stately are 
his steps in grief! The tears are in his eyes! His 
manly breast is heaving over his bursting soul ! Retire, 
I am distant afar, a wanderer in lands unknown. 
Though the race of kings are around me, yet my soul 
is dark. Why have our fathers been foes, Ton-thor- 
mod, love of maids!" 

" Soft voice of the streamy isle," I said, " why dost 
thou mourn by night ? The race of daring Trenmor 
are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not wander by 
streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-morul ! within this 
bosom is a voice : it comes not to other ears : it bids 
Ossian hear the hapless in their hour of wo. Retire, 
soft singer by night ! Ton-thormod shall not mourn on 
his rock !" 



238 THK poRivij; or ossia;^. 

With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long- 
haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words in the midst 
of his echoing halls. " King of Fiiiirfed wild, why- 
should Ton-thormod mourn 1 He is of the race of he- 
roes, and a flame in war. Your fathers have been foes, 
but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They 
stretch their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda. 
Forget their rage, ye warriors ? It was the cloud ot 
other years." 

Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks 
were young ; though loveliness, with a robe of beams, 
clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back, 
maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away ! 



COLNA-DONA. 

ARGUMENT. 

Pingal despatches OssI*dn and Toscar, the son of Conloch, and father 
of Malvina, to ra/se a stone on the banks of the stream of Crona, 
to perpetuate the memory of a victory which he had obtained in 
that place. Whien they were employed in that work, Car-ul, a 
neighboring chief, invited them to a feast. They went, and 
Toscar fell desperately in love with Colna-dona, the daughter of 
Car-ul. Colna-dona became no less enamored of Toscar. An 
incident at a hunting party brings their loves to a happy issue. 

CoL-AMON* of troubled streams, dark wanderer of 
distant vales, I behold thy course, between trees near 
Car-ul's echoing halls ! There dwelt bright Colna-dona, 
the daughter of the king. Her eyes were rolling stars; 
her arms were white as the foam of streams. Her 
breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's heaving wave. 
Her soul was a stream of light. Who, among the maids, 
was like the love of heroes ? 

Beneath the voice of the king we moved to Cronaf 
of the streams, Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian 
young in fields. Three bards attended with songs. 
Three bossy shields were borne before us ; for we were 
to rear the stone in memory of the past. By Crona's 
mossy course Fingal had scattered his foes ; he had 
rolled away the strangers like a troubled sea. We 
came to the place of renown ; from the mountains de- 
scended night. I tore an oak from its hill, and raised 
a flame on high. I bade my fathers to look down from 



* Colna-dona signifies " the love of heroes." Col-amon, " nar- 
row river." Car-ul, "dark-eyed." 

t Crona. " murmuring," was the name of a small stream which 
discharged itself in the river Carron. 



240 THK POKMS l)F OSSIAN. 

the clouds of their hall ; lor, at the fame of their race 
they brighten in the wind. 

I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of 
bards. The blood of Fingal's foes hung curdled in its 
ooze. Beneath I placed, at intervals, three bosses 
from the shield of foes, as rose or fell the sound of 
Uilin's nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger in earth, a 
mail of sounding steel. We raised the mould around 
the stone, and bade it speak to other years. 

Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on- 
high, speak to the feeble, O stone ! after Selma's race 
have failed ! Prone from the stormy night, the travel- 
ler shall lay him by thy side : thy whistling moss shall 
sound in his dreams; the years that were past shall 
return. Battles rise before him, blue-shielded kings 
descend to war : the darkened moon looks from heaven 
on the troubled field. He shall burst with morning 
from dreams, and see the tombs of warriors round. 
He shall ask about the stone, and the aged shall reply, 
" This gray stone was raised by Ossian, a" chief of other 
years !" 

From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul,-the friend 
of strangers. He bade us to the feast of kings, to the 
dwelling of bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall 
of harps. There Car-ul brightened between his aged 
locks, when he beheld the sons of his friends, like two 
young branches before him. 

" Sons of the mighty,'' he said, " ye bring back the 
days of old, when first I descended from waves, on 
Selma's streamy vale ! I pursued Duthmocarglos, 
dweller of ocean's wind. Our fathers had been foes ; 
we met by Clutha's winding waters. He fled along 
the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night 
deceived me on the deep. I came to the dwelling of 
kings, to Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came 
forth with his barda, and Conloch, arm of heath. I 



COLNA-DONA. 241 

feasted three days in the hall, and saw the blue eyes 
of Erin, Roscrana, daughter of heroes, light of Cor- 
mac's race. Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings 
gave their shields to Car-ul : they hang on high in Col- 
amon, in memory of the past. Sons of the daring kings, 
ye bring back the days of old ! 

Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts, he took two bosses 
from our shields. He laid them in earth beneath a 
stone, to speak to the hero's race. " When battle," 
said the king, " shall roar, and our sons are to meet in 
wrath, my race shall look perhaps on this stone, when 
they prepare the spear. Have not our fathers met in 
peace ? they v/ill say, and lay aside the shield." 

Night came down. In her long locks moved the 
daughter of Car-ul. Mixed with the harp arose the 
voice of white-arm.ed Colna-dona. Toscar darkened 
in his place before the love of heroes. She came on 
his troubled soul, like a beam to the dark-heaving 
ocean, when it bursts from a cloud, and brightens the 
foamy side of a wave.* 

With morning we awaked the woods, and hung for- 
ward on the path of the roes. They fell by their wonted 
streams. We retuimed through Crona's vale. From 
the wood a youth came forward, with a shield and 
pointless spear. — "Whence," said Toscar of Lutha, 
" is the flying beam 1 Dwells there peace at Col-amon, 
round bright Colna-dona of harps?" 

"By Col-amon of streams," said the youth, "bright 
Colna-dona dwelt. She dwelt ; but her course is now 
in deserts with the son of the king ; he that seized 
with love her soul as it wandered through the hall." 



* Here an episode is entirely lost; or, at least, is handed down 
BO imperfectly, that it does not deserve a place in the poem. 
21 



242 THE POEMS OF OSSTAN. 

"Stranger of tales," said Toscar, "hast thou marked 
the warrior's course ? He must fall ; give thou that 
bossy shield." In wrath he took the shield. Fair 
behind it rose the breasts of a ir^id, white as the bo- 
som of a swan, rising graceful on swift-rolling waves. 
It was Colna-dona of harpsj the daughter of the king ! 
Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love 
arose I 



OITHONA. 



ARGUMENT. 



'jAuI, the son of Moriii, attended Lathmon into his own Cfuntry, 
after his being defeated in Moi-ven, as related in a preceding 
poem. He was kindly entertained by Nuath, the father of Lath- 
mon, and fell in love with, his daughter Oithona. The lady was 
no less enamored (^f Gaul, and a day was fixed for their mar- 
riage. In the mean time Fingal, preparing for an expedition into 
the country of the Britons, sent for Gaul. He obeyed, and went; 
but not without promising to Oithona to return, if he survived the 
war, by a certain day. Lathmon too was obliged to attend his 
father Xuath in his wars, and Oithona was left alone at Dunlath- 
mon, the seat of the family. Dunrommath, Lord of LFthal, sup- 
posed to be one of the Orkneys, taking advantage of the absence 
of her friends, came and carried oif, by force, Oithona, who had 
formerly rejected his love, into Tromathon, a desert island, where 
he concealed her in a cave. 

•i-aul returned on the day appointed ; heard of the rape, and sailed 
to Tromathon, to revenge himself on Dunrommath. When he 
landed, he found Oithona disconsolate, and resolved not to sur- 
vive the loss of her honor. She told him the story of her misfor- 
tunes, and she scarce ended when Dunrommath with his follow- 
ers appeared at the farther end of the island. Gaul prepared to 
attack him, recommending to Ohhona to retire till the battle was 
over. She seemin^'ly obe^-ed: but she secretly armed herself, 
rushed into the thickest of the battle, and was mortally wounded. 
Gaul, pursuing the flying enem.yj found her just expiring on the 
field ; he mourned over her, raised her tomb, and returned to 
Morven. Thus is the story handed down by tradition ; nor is it 
given with any material dilierence in the poem, w;hich opens 
with Gauls return to Dunlathmon, after the rape of Oithona. 

Darkness dwells around Dunlathmon, though the 
Mioon shows half her face on the hill. The daughter 
of night turns her eyes away; she beholds the ap. 
proaching grief. The son of Morni is on the plain : 
there is no sound in the hall. No long streaming 
beam of light comes trembling through the gloom. The 
voice of Oithona is not heard amidst the noise of the 
streams of Duyranna, " Whither art thou gone in thy 



244 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

beauty, dark-haired daughter of Nu'dth ? Lathmon is 
in the field of the valiant, but thou didst promise to re- 
main in the hall till the son of Morni returned. Till 
he returned from Strumon, to the maid of his love ! 
The tear was on thy cheek at his departure ; the sigh 
rose in secret in thy breast. But thou dost not come 
forth with songs, with the lightly trembling sound of 
the harp !" 

Such were the words of Gaul, when he came to Dun- 
lathmon's towers. The gates were open and dark. 
The winds were blustering in the hall. The trees 
strewed the threshold with leaves ; the murmur of night 
was abroad. Sad and silent, at a rock, the son of 
Morni sat: his soul trembled for the maid; but he 
knew not whither to turn his course ! The son of Leth 
stood at a distance, and heard the winds in his bushy 
hair. But he did not raise his voice, for he saw the 
sorrow of Gaul ! 

Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions of night 
arose. Oithona stood, in a dream, before the eyes of 
Morni's son. Her hair was loose and disordered ; lier 
lovely eye rolled deep in tears. Blood stained her 
snowy arm. The robe half hid the wound of her breast. 
She stood over the chief, and her voice was feebly 
heard. " Sleeps the son of Morni, he that was lovely in 
the eyes of Oithona ? Sleeps Gaul at the distant rock, 
and the daughter of Nuath lov^' ? The sea rolls round 
the dark isle of Trom^thon. I sit in my tears in the 
cave ! Nor do I sit alone, O Gaul ! the dark chief of 
Cuthal is there. He is there in the rage of his love. 
What can Oithona do ?" 

A rougher blast rushed through the oak. The drean^ 
of night departed. Gaul took his aspen spear. He 
stood in the rage of his soul. Often did his f^yt^s turn 
to the east. He accused the lagging light, kt length 
the morning came forth. The hero lifted up the saih 



OiTHONA. 245 

The winds came rustling from the hill ; he bounded on 
the waves of the deep. On the third day arose Tro- 
mdthon, like a blue shield in the midst of the sea. The 
white wave roared against its rocks ; sad Oithona sat 
on the coast ! She looked on the rolling waters, and 
her tears came down. But when she saw Gaul in his 
arms, she started, and turned her eyes away. Her 
lovely cheek is bent and red ; her white arm trembles 
by her side. Thrice she strove to fly from his pre- 
sence ; thrice her steps failed as she went ! 

" Daughter of Nuath," said the hero, " why dost thou 
fly from Gaul ? Do my eyes send forth the flame of 
death ? Darkens hatred in my soul ? Thou art to me 
the beam of the east, rising in a land unknown. But 
thou coverest thy face with sadness, daughter of car- 
borne Nuath ! Is the foe of Oithona near ! My soul 
burns to meet him in fight. The sword trembles by 
the side of Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand. 
Speak, daughter of Nuiith ! Dost thou not behold my 
tears ?" 

" Young chief of Strumon," replied the maid, " why 
comest thou over the dark-blue wave, to Nuath's mourn- 
ful daughter ! Why did I not pass away in secret, like 
the flower of the rock, that lifts its fair head unseen, 
and strews its withered leaves on the blast ! Why didst 
thou come, O Gaul ! to hear my departing sigh ! I 
vanish in my youth ; my name shall not be heard. Or 
it will be heard with grief; the tears of Nuath must 
fall. Thou wilt be sad, son of Morni ! for the departed 
fame of Oithona. But she shall sleep in the narrow 
tomb, far from the voice of the mourner. Why didst 
thou come, chief of Strumon ! to the sea-beat rocks of 
Tromathon !" 

"I came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne 
Nuath ! The death of Cuthal's chief darkens before me ; 
or Morni's son shall fall ! Oithona ! when Gaul is low? 
21* 



246 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

raise my tomb on that oozy rock. When the dark- 
bounding ship shall pass, call the sons of the sea ; call 
them, and give this sword, to bear it hence to Morni's 
hall. The gray-haired chief will then cease to look 
towards the desert for the return of his son !" 

"Shall the daughter of Nuiith live?" she repliea, 
with a bursting sigh. " Shall I live in Tromathon, and 
the son of Morni low ? My heai-t is not of that rock ; 
nor my soul careless as that sea, which lifts its blue 
waves to every wind, and rolls beneath the storm ! The 
blast which shall lay thee low, shall spread the branches 
of Oithona on earth. We shall wither together, son 
of car-borne Morni ! The narrow house is pleasant to 
me, and the gray stone of the dea.d : for never more 
will I leave thy rocks, O sea-surrounded Tromathon ! 
Night came on with her clouds after the departure of 
Lathmon, when he went to the wars of his fathers, to 
the moss-covered rock of Duthormoth. Night came 
on. I sat in the hall, at the beam of the oak ! The 
wind was abroad in the trees. 1 heard the sound of 
arms. Joy rose in my face. I thought of thy return. 
It was the chief of Cuthal, the red-haired strength of 
Dunrommath. His eyes rolled in fire : the blood of 
my people was on his sword. They who defended 
Oithona fell by the gloomy chief! What could I do ? 
My arm was weak. I could not lift the spear. He 
took me in my grief; amidst my tears he raised th« 
sail. He feared the returning Lathmon, the brother of 
unhappy Oithona ! But behold, he comes with his 
people ! the dark wave is divided before him ! Whither 
wilt thou turn thy steps, son qf Morni ? Many are tin 
warriors of thy foe !" 

*' My steps never turned from battle," Gaul said, and 
unsheathed his sword : " shall I then begin to fear,. 
Oithona ! when thy foes are near ? Go to ihy cave, my 
love, till our battle cease on the field. Son of Leth, 



OIPHONA, :247 

bring the bows of our fathers ! the sounding quiver of 
Morni ! Let our three warriors bend the yew. Our- 
selves will lift the spear. They are a host on the 
rock ! our souls are strong in war !" 

Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy rose on 
her mind, like the red path of lightning on a stormy 
cleud ! Her soul was resolved : the tear was dried from 
her wildly-looking eye. Dunrommath slowly ap- 
proached. He saw the son of Morni. Contempt con^ 
tracted his face, a smile is on his dark-brown cheek ; 
his red eye rolled half concealed, beneath his shaggy 
brows ! 

" Whence are the sons of the sea ?" began the 
gloomy chief. Have the winds driven you on the rocks 
of Tromathon ? or come you in search of the white- 
handed maid ? the sons of the unhappy, ye feeble men, 
come -to the hand of Dunrommath ! His eye spares not 
the weak ; he delights in the blood of strangers. 
Oithona is a beam of light, and the chief of Cuthal en- 
joys it in secret ; wouidst thou come on its loveliness like 
a cloud, son of the feeble hand ? Thou mayest come, 
but shalt thou return to the halls of thy fathers V 

" Dost thou not know me,^' said Gaul, " red-haired 
--hief of Cuthal ? Thy feet were swift on the heath, in 
• he battle of car-borne Lathmon ; when the sword of 
Morni's son pursued his host, in Morven's woody land. 
Dunrommath ! thy words are mighty, for thy v/arrlors 
gather behind thee. But do I fear them, son of pride ? 
I am not of the race of the feeble !" 

Gaul advanced in his arms ; Dunrommath shrunk be- 
hind his people. But the spear of Gaul pierced the 
gloomy chief: his sword lopped off his head, as it 
bended in death. The son of Morni shook it thrice by 
the lock ; the warriors of Dunrommath fled. The 
arrows of Morven pursued them : ten fell on the mossy 
rocks. The rest lift the sounding sail, and bound on the 



248 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

troubled deep. Gaul' advanced towards the cave of 
Oithona. He beheld a youth leaning on a rock. An 
arrow had pierced his side ; his eye rolled faintly be- 
neath his helmet. The soul of Morni's son was sad ; 
he came, and spoke the words of peace. 

"Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of the 
mournful brow ? I have searched for the herbs of the 
mountains ; I have gathered them on the secret banks 
of their streams. My hand has closed the wound of 
the brave, their eyes liave blessed the son of Morni. 
Where dwelt thy fathers, warrior ? Were they of the 
sons of the mighty ! Sadness shall come, like night, 
on thy native streams. Thou art fallen in thy youth!" 

" My fathers," replied the stranger, •' v/ere of tlx) 
race of the mighty ; but they shall not be sad ; for my 
fame is departed like morning mist. High walls rise 
on the banks of Duvranna; and see their mossy towers 
in the stream ; a rock ascends behind them with its 
bending pines. Thou maycst behold it far distant. 
There my brother dwells. He is renowned in battle: 
give him this glittering helmet." 

The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul. It was the 
wounded Oithona ! She had armed herself in the cave, 
and came in search of death. Her heavy eyes are 
half closed ; the blood pours from her heaving side. 
" Son of Morni !" she said, '' prepare the narrow tonib. 
Sleep grows, like darkness, on my soul. The eyes of 
Oithona are dim ! O had I dwelt at Duvranna, in the 
bright beam of my fame ! then had my years come on 
with joy ; the virgins would then bless my steps. But 
I fall in youth, son of Morni ! my father shall blush in 
his hall !" 

She fell pale on the rock of Tromathon. The mourn- 
ful warrior raised her tomb. He came to Morven ; we 
saw the darkness of his soul. Ossian took the harp in 
the praise of Oithona. The brightness of the face of 



CROMA. 249 

Gaul returned. But his sigh rose, at times, in the 
midst of his friends ; like blasts that shake their unfre- 
quent wings, after the stormy winds are laid ! 



CROMA, 

ARGUMENT. 

Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, is overheard by Ossian lamenting 
the deaih of Oscar her lover. _ Ossian, to divert her grief, relate'3 
his own actions in an expedition which he undertook, at Fingal's 
command, to aid Crothar the petty kin^ of Croma, a country in 
in Ireland, against Roihmar,\vho invaded his dominions. The 
story is delivered down thus in tradition. Crothar, king of Cro- 
ma, being blind with age, and his son too young for the field, 
liolhmar, the chief of Tronio, resolved to avail himself of the op- 
portunity olTered of annexing the dominions of Crothar to his own. 
He accordingly marched into the country subject to Crothar, but 
which he held of Arth or xlrtho, who was, at the time, supreme 
king of Ireland. 

Crothar bein^, on account of his age and blindness, unfit for action, 
sent for aid to Fingal, king of Scotland ; who ordered his son 
Ossian to the relief of Crothar. But before his arrival Fovar- 
gormo, the son of Crothar, attacking Rothmar, was slain himself,^ 
and his forces totally defeated. Oasian renewed the war ; came 
to bd.:le, killed Rothmar, and routed his araiy. Croma being 
thus delivered of its enemies, Ossian returned to Scotland. 

" It was the voice of my love ! seldom art thou in 
the dreams of Malvina ! Open your airy halls, O father 
of Toscar of shields ! Unfold the gates of your clouds: 
the steps pf Malvina are near. I have heard a voice 
in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul. Why 
didst thou come. O blast ! from the dark-rolling face 
of the lake ? Thy rustling wing was in the tree ; the 
dream of Malvina fled. But she beheld her love when 
his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sunbeam was on 
his skirts, they glittered like the gold of the stranger* 



250 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

It was the voice of my love ! seldom comes he to my 
dreams ! 

" But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of 
mighty Ossian ! My sighs arise with the beam of the 
east; my tears descend with the drops of night. I 
was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all my 
branches round me ; but thy death came like a blast 
from the desert, and laid my green head low. The 
spring returned with its showers ; no leaf of mine 
arose ! The virgins saw me silent in the hall ; they 
touched the harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek 
of Malvina : the virgins beheld me in my grief. Why 
art thou sad, they said, thou first of the maids of Lutha ! 
Was he lovely as the beam of the morning, and stately 
in thy sight?" 

Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter of 
streamy Lutha ! Thou hast heard the music of departea 
bards in the dream of thy rest, when sleep fell on thine 
eyes, at the murmur of Moruth. When thou didst re- 
turn from the chase in the day of the sun, thou hast 
heard the music of bards, and thy song is lovely ! It is 
lovely, O Malvina! but it melts the soul. There is a 
joy in grief when peace dwells in the breast of the sad. 
But sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar! 
and their days are few ! They fall away, like the flower 
on which the sun hath looked in his strength, after the 
mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with 
the drops of night. Attend to the talcs of Ossian, O 
maid! He remembers the days of his youth ! 

The king commanded ; I raised my sails, and rushed 
into the bay of Croma; into Croma's sounding bay in 
lovely Inisfail.* High on the coast arose the towers 
of Crothar king of spears; Crothar renowned in. the 
battles of his youth ; but age dwelt then around the 

♦ Inisfail, one of the ancient names of Ireland. 



CROMA. 251 

chief. Rothmar had raised the sword against the hero; 
and the wrath of Fingal burned. He sent Ossian to 
meet Rothmar in war, for the chief of Croma was the 
friend of his youth. I sent the bard before me with 
songs. I came into the hall of Crothar. There sat 
the chief amidst the arms of his fathers, but his eyes 
had failed. His gray locks waved around a staff, on 
which the warrior leaned. He hummed the song of 
other times ; when the sound of our arms reached his 
ears Crothar rose, stretched his aged hand, and blessed 
the son of Fingal. 

" Ossian !" said the hero, " the strength of Crothar's 
arm has failed. O could I lift the sword, as on the 
day that Fingal fought at Strutha ! He was the first of 
men ; but Crothar had also his fame. The king of 
Morven praised me ; he placed on my arm the bossy 
shield of Calthar, whom the king had slain in his wars. 
Dost thou not behold it on the wall ? for Crothar's eyes 
have failed. Is thy strength like thy father's, Ossian ! 
let the aged feel thine arm !" 

I gave my arm to the king ; he felt it with his aged 
hands. The sigh rose in his breast, and his tears came 
down. " Thou art strong, my son," he said, " but not 
like the king o^ Morven ! But who is like the hero 
among the mighty in war ? Let the feast of my hall be 
spread ; and let my bards exalt the song. Great is he 
that is within my walls, ye sons of echoing Croma !" 
The feast is spread. The harp is heard ; and joy is in 
the hall. But it v/as joy covering a sigh, that darkly 
dwelt in every breast. It was like the faint beam of 
the moon spread on a cloud in heaven. At length the 
music ceased, and the aged king of Croma spoke ; he 
spoke without a tear, but sorrow swelled in the midst 
of his voice. 

" Son of Fingal ! beholdest thou not the darkness of 
Crothar's joy ? My soul was not sad ut the feast, when 



252 THK POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

my people lived before mc. I rejoiced in the presence 
of strangers, when my son shone in the hall. But, 
Ossian, he is a beam that is departed. He left no 
streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal ! in 
the wars of his father. Rothmar the chief of grassy 
Tromlo heard that these eyes had failed ; he heard that 
my arms were fixed in the hall, and the pride of his 
soul arose ! He came tov/ards Croma ; my people fell 
before him. I took my arms in my wrath, but what 
could sightless Crothar do ? My steps were unequal ; 
my grief was great. I wished for the days that were 
past. Days ! wherein I fought ; and won in the field 
of blood. My son returned from the chase : the fair- 
haired Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword in 
battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of the 
youth was great ; the fire of valor burned in his eyes. 
He saw the disordered steps of his father, and his sigh 
arose — " King of Croma," he said, " is it because thou 
hast no son ; is it for the weakness of Fovar-gormo's 
arm that thy sighs arise ? I begin, my father, to feel 
my strength ; I have drawn the sword of my youth ; 
and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, 
with the sons of Croma : let me meet him, O my father? 
I feel my burning soul V — "And thou shalt meet him,'* 
I said, " son of the sightless Crothar !' But let others 
advance before thee that I may hear the tread of thy 
feet at thy return ; for my eyes behold thee not, fair- 
haired Fovar-gormo !" He went; he met the foe; he 
fell. Rothmar advances to Croma. He who slew my 
son is near, with all his pointed spears." 

This is no time to fill the shell, I replied, and took 
my spear ! My people saw the fire of my eyes ; they 
all arose around. Through night we strode along the 
heath. Gray morning rose in the east. A green nar- 
row vale appeared before us ; nor wanting are its wind- 
ing streams. The dark host of Rothmar are on its 



CtlOMA. 25 o 

banks, with all their glittering arms. We fought along 
the vale. They fled. Rothmar sunk heneath n.y 
sword ! Day had not descended in the west, when I 
brought his arms to Crothar. The aged hero felt them 
with his hands ; and joy brightened over all his thoughts 

The people gather to the hall ! The shells of the 
feast are heard. Ten harps are strung ; five bards ad- 
vance, and sing, by turns, the praise of Ossian ; the\ 
poured fourth their burning souls, and the string an- 
swered to their voice. The joy of Croma was great ; 
for peace returned to the land. The night came on 
with silence ; the morning returned with joy. No foe 
came in darkness with his glittering spear. The joy 
of Croma was great; for the gloomy Rothmar had 
fallen ! 

I raised my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid 
the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but 
his sigh was not heard. He searched for the wound 
of his son, and fouiid it in his breast. Joy rose in the 
face of the aged. He came and spoke to Ossian. 
'■ King of spears !" he said, " my son has not fallen 
without his fame. The young warrior did not fly; but 
met death as he went forward in his strength. Happy 
are they who die in youth, when their renown is heard ! 
The feeble will not behold them in the hall ; or smile 
at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be hon- 
ored in song ; the young tear of the virgin will fall. 
But the aged wither away by degrees ; the fame of 
their youth, while yet they live, is all forgot. They 
fall in secret. The sigh of their son is not heard. Joy 
is arDund their tomb ; the stone of their fame is placed 
without a tear. Happy are they who die in their youth, 
when their renown is around them I" 
22 



CALTHON AND COLMAL. 



ARGUMENT. 

This piece, as many more of Ossian's compositions, is addressed to 
one of tlie first Christian missionaries. The story of the poem is 
handed down by tradition thus : — In the country of the Britons, 
between the walls, two chiefs lived in the days of Fingal, Dun- 
thalmo, Lord of Teutha, supposed to be the Tweed ; and Rath- 
mor, who dwelt at CliUha, well known to be the river Clyde. 
Rathmor was not more renowned for his generosity and hospi- 
tality, than Dunthalmo was infamous for his cruelty and ambi- 
tion. Dunthalmo^ through envy, or on account of some private 
feuds,^ which subsisted between the familicSj murdered Rathmor 
at a feast ; but being afterward touched with remorse, he edu- 
cated the two sons of Rathmor, Calthon and Colmar, in his own 
house. They growing up to man's estate, dropped some hints 
that they intended to revenge the death of their father, upon 
which Dunthalmo shut them up in two caves, on the banks of 
Teutha, intending to take them off privately. Colmal, the daugh- 
ter of Dunthalmo, who was secretly in \oVe with Calthon, helped 
him to make his escape from prison, and fled with him to Fingal, 
disguised in the habit of a young warrior, and implored his aid 
against Dunthalmo. Fingal sent Ossian with three hundred men 
to Colmar's rehef. Dunthalmo, having previously murdered Col- 
mar, came to a battle with Ossian, but he was killed by that hero, 
and his army totally defeated. 

Calthon married Colmal his deliverer; and Ossian returned to 
Morven. 

Pleasant is the voice of tliy song, thou lonely dweller 
of the rock ! It connes on the sound of the stream, along 
the narrow vale. My soul awakes, O stranger, in the 
midst of my hall. I stretch my hand to the spear, as 
in the days of other years. I stretch my hand, but it 
is feeble : and the sigh of my bosom grows. Wilt 
thou not listen, son of the rock ! to the song of Ossian? 
My soul is full of other times ; the joy of my youth re- 
turns. Thus the sun appears in the west, after the 
steps of his brightness have moved behind a storm : the 
green hills lift their dewy heads : the blue st -earns re- 



CALTHON AND COLMAL. 255 

joice in the vale. The aged hero comes forth on his 
staff; his gray hair glitters in the beam. Dost thou 
not behold, son of the rock ! a shield in Ossian's hall ? 
It is marked with the strokes of battle ; and the bright, 
ness of its bosses has failed. That shield the great 
Dunthalmo bore, the chief of streamy Teutha. Dun- 
thalmo bore it in battle before he fell by Ossian's spear. 
Listen, son of the rock ! to the tale of other years. 

Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble dwelt 
in his hall. The gates of Rathmor were never shut: 
his feast was always spread. The sons of the stranger 
came. They blessed the generous chief of Clutha. 
Bards raised the song, and touched the harp : joy 
brightened on the face of the sad ! Dunthalmo came, 
in his pride, and rushed into the combat of Rathmor. 
The chief of Clutha overcame : the rage of Dunthalmo 
rose. He came, by night, with his warriors ; the 
mighty Rathmor fell. He fell in his halls, where his 
feast was often spread for strangers. 

Colmar and Calthon were young, the sons of car- 
borne Rathmor. They came, in the joy of youth, into 
their father's hall. They behold him in his blood; 
their bursting tea,rs descend. The soul of Dunthalmo 
melted, when he saw the children of youth. He brought 
them to Alteutha's walls ; they grew in the house of 
their foe. They bent the bow in his presence: and 
came forth to his wars. They saw the fallen walls of 
their fathers ; they saw the green thorn in the hall. 
Their tears rushed forth in secret. At times their faces 
were sad. Dunthalmo beheld their grief ; his darken- 
ing soul designed their death. He closed them in two 
caves, on the echoing banks of Teutha. The sun did 
not come there with his beams ; nor the moon of hea- 
ven by night. The sons of Rathmor remained in dark- 
ness, and foresaw their death. 

The daughter of Dunthalmo wept in silence, the fair- 



256 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

haired blue-eyed Colmal. Her eye had rolled in secret 
on Calthon ; his loveliness swelled in her soul. She 
trembled for her warrior ; but what could Colmal do ? 
Her arm could not lift the spear ; nor was the sword 
formed for her side. Her white breast never rose be- 
neath a mail. Neither was her eye the terror of he- 
roes. What canst thou do, O Colmal ! for the falling 
chief? Her steps are unequal ; her hair is loose ; her 
eye looks wildly through her tears. She came, by 
night, to the hall. She armed her lovely form in steel ; 
the steel of a young warrior, who fell in the first of his 
battles. She came to the cave of Calthon, and loosed 
the thong from his hands. 

" Arise, son of Rathmor," she said, " arise, the night 
is dark ! Let us fly to the king of Selma, chief of fallen 
Clutha ! I am the son of Lamgal, who dwelt in thy fa- 
ther's hall. I heard of thy dark dwelling in the cave, 
and my soul arose. Arise, son of Rathmor ! arise, the 
night is dark !" — " Blest voice 1" replied the chief, 
" comest thou from the clouds to Calthon ? The ghosts 
of his fathers have often descended in his dreams, since 
the sun has retired from his eyes, and darkness has 
dwelt around him. Or art thou the son of Lamgal, the 
chief I often saw in Clutha ? But shall I fly to Fingal, 
and Colmar my brother low ? Will I fly to Morven, 
and the hero closed in night ? No ; give me that 
spear, son of Lamgal ; Calthon will defend his bro- 
ther r 

" A thousand warriors," replied the maid, " stretch 
their spears round car-borne Colmar. What can Cal- 
thon do against a host so great ? Let us fly to the king 
of Morven, he will come with war. His arm is stretched 
forth to the unhappy; the lightning of his sword is 
round the weak. Arise, thou son of Rathmor; the 
shadows will fly away. Arise, or thy steps may be 
seen, and thou must fall in youth." 



CALTHON AND COLMAL. 257 

The sighing hero rose ; his tears descend for car- 
borne Colmar. He came with the maid to Selma's 
hal] : but he knew not that it was Colmal. The helmet 
covered her lovely face. Her bosom heaved beneath 
the steel. Fingal returned from the chase, and found 
the lovely strangers. They were like two beams of 
lightj in the midst of the hall of shells. The king heard 
the tale of grief, and turned his eyes around. A thou- 
sand heroes half rose before him ; claiming the war oi 
Teutha. I came with my spear from the hill ; the joy 
of battle rose in my breast : for the king spoke to Os- 
sian in the midst of a thousand chiefs. 

" Son of my strength,"' began the king, " take thou 
the spear of Fingal. Go to Teutha's rushing streamy 
and save the car-borne Colmar. Let thy fame return 
before thee like a pleasant gale ; that my soul may re- 
joice over my son, who renews the renown of our fa- 
thers. Ossian ! be thou a storm in war ; but mild 
when the foe is low ! it was thus my fame arose, O my 
son ! be thou like Selma's chief. When the haughty 
come to my halls, my eyes behold them not. But my 
arm is stretched forth to the unhappy. My sword de- 
fends the weak." 

I rejoiced in the words of the king. I took my 
rattling arms. Diaran rose at my side, and Dargo, 
king of spears. Three hundred youths followed our 
steps ; the lovely strangers were at my side. Dun- 
thalmo heard the sound of our approach. He gathered 
the strength of Teutha. He stood on a hill with liis 
host. They were like rocks broken with thunder, 
when their bent trees are singed and bare, and the 
streams of their chinks have failed. The stream of 
Teutha rolled in its pride, before the gloomy foe. I 
sent a bard to Dunthalmo, to offer the combat on the 
plain ; but he smiled in the darkness of his pride. His 
unsettled host moved on the hill; like the mountain 
22* 



258 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

cloud, when the blast has entered its womb, and scat- 
ters the curhng gloom on every side. 

They brought CohTiar to Teutha's bank, bound with 
a thousand thongs. The chief is sad, but stately. His 
eye is on his friends ; for we stood in our arms, whilst 
Teutha's waters rolled between. Dunthalmo came 
with his spear, and pierced the hero's side : he rolled 
on the bank in his blood. We heard his broken sighs, 
Calthon rushed into the stream : I bounded forward on 
my spear. Teutha's race fell before us. Night came 
roiling down. Dunthalmo rested on a rock, amidst an 
aged wood. Tlie rage of h»s bosom burned against 
the car-borne Calthon. But Calthon stood in grief; he 
mourned the fallen Colmar ; Colmar slain in youth be- 
fore his fame arose ! 

I bade the song of wo to rise, to soothe the mourn- 
ful chief; but he stood beneath a tree, and often threw 
his spear on the earth. The humid eye of Colmal 
rolled near in a secret tear : she foresaw the fall of 
Dunthalmo, or of Clutha's warlike chief. Now half 
the night had passed away. Silence and darkness were 
on the field. Sleep rested on the eyes of the heroes : 
Calthon's settling soul was still. His eyes were half 
closed ; but the murmur of Teutha had not yet failed 
in his ear. Pale, and showing his wounds, the ghost 
of Colmar came : he bent his head over the hero, an<?i 
raised his feeble voice ! 

" Sleeps the son of Rathmor in his night, and his 
brother iow ? Did we not rise to the chase together ? 
Pursued we not the dark-brown hinds ? Colmar was 
not forgot till he fell, till death had blasted his youth 
I lie pale beneath the rock of Lena. O let Calthon 
rise ! the morning comes with its beams ; Dunthalmo 
will dishonor the fallen." He passed away in his blast- 
The rising Calthon saw the steps of his departure. He 
rushed in the sound of his steel. Unhappy Colmal rose. 



CALTHON AND COLMAL. 259 

She followed her hero through night, and dragged her 
spear behind. But when Calthon came to Lona's rock, 
he found his fallen brother. The rage of his bosom 
rose ; he rushed among the foe. The groans of death 
ascend. They close around the chief. He is bound 
in the midst, and brought to gloomy Dunthalmo. The 
shout of joy arose ; and the hills of night replied. 

I started at the sound ; and took my father's spear. 
Diaran rose at my side ; and the youthful strength of 
Dargo. We missed the chief of Clutha, and our souls 
were sad. I dreaded the departure of my fame. The 
pride of my valor rose. " Sons of Morven," I said, "it 
is not thus our fathers fought. They rested not on the 
field of strangers, when the foe was not fallen before 
them. Their strength was like the eagles of heaven; 
their renown is in the song. But our people fall by 
degrees. Our fame begins to depart. What shall the 
king of Morven say, if Ossian conquers not at Teutha? 
Rise in your steel, ye warriors, follow the sound of 
Ossian's course. He will not return, but renowned, 
to the echoing walls of Selma." 

Morning rose on the blue waters of Teutha. Colmal 
stood before me in tears. She told of the chief of 
Clutha: thrice the spear fell from her hand. My wrath 
turned against the stranger ; for my soul trembled for 
Calthon. " Son of the feeble hand !" I said, " do 
Tcutha's warriors fight with tears ? The battle is not 
won with grief; nor dwells the sigh in the soul of war. 
Go to the deer of Carmun, to the lowing herds of 
Teutha. But leave these arms, thou son of fear ! A 
warrior may lift them in fight." 

I tore the mail from her shoulders. Her snowy 
breast appeared. She bent her blushing face to the 
ground. I loo^ied in silence to the chiefs. The spear 
fell from my hand ; the sigh of my bosom rose ! But 
when I heard the name of the maid, my crowding tears 



260 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAK. 

rushed down. 1 blessed the lovely beam of youth, and 
bade the battle move ! 

Why, son of the rock, should Ossian tell how Teutlia's 
warriors died ? They are now forgot in their land ; 
their tombs are not found on the heath. Years came 
on with their storms. The green mounds are moul- 
dered away. Scarce is the grave of Dunthalmo seen, 
or the place where he fell by the spear of Ossian. 
Some gray warrior, half blind with age, sitting by night 
at the flaming oak of the hall, tells now my deeds to 
his sons, and the fall of the dark Dunthalmo. The 
faces of youth bend sidelong towards his voice. Sur- 
prise and joy burn in their eyes ! I found Calthon bound 
to an oak ; my sword cut the thongs from his iiands. 
1 gave him the white-bosomed Colmal. They aweli 
in the halls of Teutha. 



THE WAR OF CAROS. 

ARGUMENT. 

Caros is probably the noted usurper Carausius, by birth a Menapian, 
who assumed the purple in the year 284 ; and, seizing on Britain, 
defeated the emperor Maximiuian HercuUus in several naval en- 
gagements, which gives propriety to his being called in this poem 
" the kin^ of ships." He repaired Agricola's wall, in order to 
obstruct the incursions of the Caledonians, and when he was em- 
ployed in that work, it appears he was attacked by a party under 
the command of Oscar the son ot' Ossian. This battle is the foun- 
dation of the present poem, which is addressed to Malvina, the 
daughter of Toscar. 

Bring, daughter of Toscar, bring the harp ! the light 
of the song rises in Ossian's soul ! It is like the field, 
when darkness covers the hills around, and the shadow 
grows slowly on the plain of the sun. I behold my son, 
O Malvina ! near the mossy rock of Crona. But it is 
the mist of the desert, tinged with the beam of the west ! 
Lovely is the mist that assumes the form of Oscar ! 
turn from it, ye winds, when ye roar on the side of 
Ardven ! 

Who comes towards my son, with the murmur of a 
song? His staff is in his hand, his gray hair loose on 
the wind. Surly joy lightens his face. He . often 
looks back to Caros. It is Ryno of songs, he that went 
to view the foe. " What does Caros, king of ships ?" 
said the son of the now mournful Ossian : " spreads he 
the wings* of his pride, bard of the times of old ?" — 
" He spreads them, Oscar," replied the bard, " but it is 
behind his gathered heap, I He looks over his stones 



* The Roman eagle 

t Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired. 



2G2 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

witli fear. He beholds thee terrible, as the ghost of 
night, that rolls the waves to his ships !" 

" Go, thou first of my bards !" says Oscar, " take the 
spear of Fingal. Fix a flame on its point. Shake it 
to the winds of heaven. Bid him in songs, to advance, 
and leave the rolling of his wave. Tell to Caros that 
I long for battle ; that my bow is weary of the chase 
of Cona. Tell him the mighty are not here ; and that 
my arm is young." 

He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared 
his voice on high. It reached his heroes on Ardven, 
like the noise of a cave, when the sea of Togorma rolls 
before it, and its trees meet the roaring winds. They 
gather round my son like the streams of the hill ; when, 
after rain, they roll in the pride of their course. Ryno 
came to the mighty Caros. He struck his flaming 
spear. Come to the battle of Oscar. O thou that sit- 
test on the rolling waves ! Fingal is distant far ; he 
hears the songs of bards in Morven : the wind of his 
hall is in his hair. His terrible spear is at his side ; his 
shield that is like the darkened moon ! Come to the 
battle of Oscar; the hero is alone. 

He came not over the streamy Carun. The bard 
returned with his song. Gray night grows dim on 
Crona. The feast of shells is spread. A hundred oaks 
burn to the wind ; faint light gleams over the heath. 
The ghosts of Ardven pass through the beam, and show 
their dim and distant forms. Comala* is half unseen 
on her meteor ; Hidallan is sullen and dim, like the 
darkened moon behind the mist of night, 

"Why art thou sad?" said Ryno ; for he alone be. 
held the chief. " Why art thou sad, Hidallan ! hasl 
thou not received thy fame 1 The songs of Ossian have 



* This is the scene of Comala's death, which is the subject of the 
dramatic poera. 



THE WAR OF CAKOS. 263 

been heard ; thy ghost has brightened in wind, when 
thou didst bend from thy cloud to hear the song of Mor- 
vcn's bard !" — '• And do thine eyes," said Oscar, "be- 
hold the chief, like the dim meteor of night? Say, 
Ryno, say, how fell Hidallan, the renowned in the days 
of my fathers ! His name remains on the rocks of 
Cona. I have often seen the streams of his hills V 

Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from his 
wars. The king's soul was sad for Comala, and his 
eyes could not behold the chief. Lonely, sad, along 
the heath he slowly moved, with silent steps. His arms 
liung disordered on his side. His hair flies loose from 
his brow. The tear is in his downcast eyes ; a sigh 
half silent in his breast ! Three days he strayed unseen, 
alone, before he came to Lamor's halls : the mossy 
halls of his fathers, at the stream of Balva. There 
Lamor sat alone beneath a tree ; for he had sent his 
people with Hidallan to war. The stream ran at his 
feet ; his g/o-y head rested on his staff. Sightless are 
his aged eyes. He hums the song of other times. 
The noisv5 of Hidallan's feet came to his ear : he knew 
the tread of his son. 

" Is the son of Lamor returned ; or is it the sound 
of his ghosi ? Hast thou fallen on the banks of Carun, 
son of the aged Lamor ? Or, if I hear the sound of 
Hidallan's feet, where are the mighty in the war ? 
where are my people, Hidallan ! that were wont to re- 
turn with their echoing shields ? Have they fallen on 
the banks of Carun ?" 

" No," replied the sighing youth, " the people of 
Lamor live. They are renowned in war, my father ! 
but Hidallan is renowned no more. I must sit alone 
on the banks of Balva, when the roar of the battle 
grows." 

" But thy fathers never sat alone," replied the rising 
pride of Lamor. " They never sat alone on the banka 



264 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

of Balva, when the roar of battle rose. Dost thou not 
behold that tomb ? My eyes discern it not ; there 
rests the noble Garmdllon, who never fled from war ! 
Come, thou renowned in battle, he says, come to thy 
father's tomb. How am I renowned, Garmallon ? my 
son has fled from war !" 

" King of the streamy Balva !" said Hidallan witn a 
sigh, " why dost thou torment my soul ? Lamor, I 
never fled. Fingal was sad for Comala ; he denied 
his wars to Hidallan. Go to the gray streams of thy 
land, he said ; moulder like a leafless oak, which the 
winds have bent over Balva, never more to grow." 

" And must I hear," Lamor replied, " the lonely 
tread of Hidallan's feet ? When thousands are re- 
nowned in battle, shall he bend over my gray streams ? 
Spirit of the noble Garmallon ! carry Lamor to his 
place ; his eyes are dark, his soul is sad, his son has 
lost his fame." 

" Where," said the youth, " shall I search for fame, 
to gladden the soul of Lamor ? From whence shall I 
return with renown, that the sound of my arms may 
be pleasant in his ear ? If I go to the chase of hinds, 
my name will not be heard. Lamor will not feel my 
dogs with his hands, glad at my arrival from the hill. 
He will not inquire of his mountains, or of the dark- 
brown deer of his deserts !" 

" I must fall," said Lamor, " like a leafless oak : it 
grew on a rock ! it was overturned by the winds ! My 
ghost will be seen on my hills, mournful for my young 
Hidallan. Will not ye, ye mists, as ye rise, hide him 
from my sight ! My son, go to Lamor's hall : there 
the arms of our fathers hang. Bring the sword of 
Garmallon : he took it from a foe !" 

He went and brought the sword with all its studded 
thongs. He gave it to his father. The gray-haired 
hero felt the point with his hand. 



THE WAR OF CAROS. 265 

" My son, lead me to Garmallon's tomb : it rises 
Dcside that rustling tree. The long grass is wither- 
ed ; I hear the breezes whistling there. A little foun- 
Jain murmurs near, and sends its waters to Balva. 
There let me rest ; it is noon : the sun is on our 
fields r 

He led him to Garmallon's tomb. Lamor pierced 
the side of his son. They sleep together : their an- 
cient halls moulder away. Ghosts are seen there at 
noon : the valley is silent, and the people shun the 
place of Lamor* 

" Mournful is thy tale," said Oscar, " son of the 
times of old ! My soul sighs for Hidallan ; he fell in 
the days of his youth. He flies on the blast of the 
desert : his wandering is in a foreign land. Sons of 
the echoing Morven ! draw near to the foes of Fingal. 
Send the night away in songs ; watch the strength of 
Caros. Oscar goes to the people of other times ; to 
the shades of silent Ardven, where his fathers sit dim 
in their clouds, and behold the future war. And art 
thou there, Hidallan, like a half-extinguished meteor ? 
Come to my sight, in thy sorrow, chief of the winding 
Balva!" 

The heroes move with their songs. Oscar slowly 
ascends the hill. The meteors of night set on the 
heath before him. A distant torrent faintly roars. 
Unfrequent blasts rush through aged oaks. The half- 
enlightened moon sinks dim and red behind her hill. 
Feeble voices are heard on the heath. Oscar drew 
his sword ! 

" Come," said the hero, " O ye ghosts of my fathers ! 
ye that fought against the kings of the world ! Tell 
me the deeds of future times ; and your converse in 
your caves, when you talk together, and behold your 
sons in the fields of the brave !" 

Trenmor came from his hill at the voice of hia 
23 



266 THE roEMs of ossian. 

mighty son. A cloud, like the steed of the stranger, 
supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist of 
Lano, that brings death to the people. His swoni is 
a green meteor, half-extinguished. His face is with- 
out form, and dark. He sighed thrice over the hero : 
thrice the winds of night roared around ! Many were 
his words to Oscar ; but they only came by halves to 
our ears ; they were dark as the tales of other times, 
before the light of the song arose. He slowly vanish, 
cd, like a mist that melts on the sunny hill. Lt was 
then, O daughter of Toscar ! my son began first to be 
sad. He foresaw the fall of his race. At times he 
was thoughtful and dark, like the sun when he carries 
a cloud on his face, but again he looks fortli froiii his 
darkness on the green hills of Cona. 

Oscar passed the night among his fathers : gray 
morning met him on Carun's banks. A green vale 
surrounded a tomb which arose in the times of old. 
Little hills lift their heads at a distance, and stretch 
their old trees to the wind. The warriors of Caros 
sat there, for they had passed the stream by night. 
They appeared like the trunks of aged pines, to the 
pale light of the morning. Oscar stood at the tomb, 
and raised thrice his terrible voice. The rocking hills 
echoed around ; the starting roes bounded away : and 
the trembling ghosts of the dead iled, shrieking on their 
clouds. So terrible was the voice of my son, when he 
called his friends ! 

A thousand spears arose around ; the people of 
Caros rose. Why, daughter of Toscar, why that tear ? 
My son, though alone, is brave. Oscar is like abeam 
of the sky ; he turns around, and the people fall. His 
hand is the arm of a ghost, when he stretches it from 
a cloud ; .the rest of his thin forin is unseen ; but the 
people die in the vale ! My son beheld the approach 
of the foe ; he stood in the silent darkness of his 



THE WAR OF CAROS. 267 

strength. " Am I alone," said Oscar, " in the midst 
of a thousand foes ? Many a spear is there ! many a 
darkly-rolling eye. Shall I fly to Ardven ? But did 
my fathers ever fly ? The mark of their arm is in a 
thousand battles. Oscar too shall be renowned. 
Come, ye dim ghosts of my fathers, and behold my 
deeds in war ! I may fall ; but I will be renowned 
like the race of the echoing Morven." He stood, 
growing in his place, like a flood in a narrow vale ! 
The battle came, but they fell : bloody was the swoixl 
of Oscar ! 

The noise reached his people at Crona ; they came 
like a hundred streams. The warriors of Caros fled ; 
Oscar remained like a rock left by the ebbing sea. 
Now dark and deep, with all his steeds, Caros rolled 
his might along : the little streams are lost in his 
course : the earth is rocking round. Battle spreads 
from wing to wing ; ten thousand swords gleam at once 
in the sky. But why should Ossian sing of battles ? 
For never more shall my steel shine in war. I re- 
member the days of my youth with grief, when I feel 
the weakness of my arm. Happy are they who fell 
in their youth, in the midst of their renown ! They 
have not beheld the tombs of their friends, or failed to 
bend the bow of their strength, Happy art thou, O 
Oscar, in the midst of thy rushing blast ! Thou often 
goest to the fields of thy fame, where Caros fled from 
thy lifted sword ! 

Darkness comes on my soul, O fair daughter of 
Toscar ! I behold not the form of my son at Carun, 
nor the figure of Oscar on Crona. The rustling winds 
have carried him far away, and the heart of his father 
is sad. But lead me, O Malvina! to the sound of my 
woods, to the roar of my mountain streams. Let the 
chase be heard on Cona : let me think on the days of 
other years. And bring me the harp, O maid ! that 



268 THE roEMS of ossian. 

I may touch it when the light of my soul slmll arise. 
Be thou near to learn the song ; future times shall 
hear of me ! The sons of the feeble hereafter will 
lift the voice of Cona ;. and looking up to the rocks, 
say, " Here Ossian dwelt." They shall admire the 
chiefs of old, the race that are no more, while we 
ride on our clouds, Malvina ! on the wings of the 
roaring winds. Our voices shall be heard at times 
in the desert j we shall sing on the breeze of the 
rock I 



CATHLIN OF CLUTHA. 



ARGUMENT, 

■^.n address to Maivina, the daughter of Toscar. The poet relatea 
the arrival of Caihlin in Selma, to soUcit aid against Duth-carmor 
of Cluba, who had killed Cathmol for the sake of his daughter 
Lanul. Fingal declining to make a choice among his heroes, 
who were all claiming the command of the expedition, they re- 
tired " each to kis hill of ghosts," to be determined by dreams. 
The spirit of Trenmor appears to Ossian and Oscar. They sail 
from the bay of Carmona, and on the fourth day, appear off the 
valley of Rath-col, in Inis-hmia, where Duth-carmor had fixed his 
residence. Ossian despatches a bard to Duth-carmor to demand 
battle. Night comes on. The distress of Cathlin of Clutha. Ossian 
devolves the command on Oscar, who, according to the custom of 
the kings of Morven, before battle, retired to a neighboring hUl. 
Upon the coming on of day, the battle joins. Oscar carries the 
-mail and helmet of Duth-carmor to Cathlin, who had retired from 
the lield. Cathhn is discovered to be the daughter of Cathmol in 
disguise, who had been carried off by force by, and had made her 
escape from, Duth-carmor. 

Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching in 
the night ! The squalling winds are around thee, from 
all their echoing hiils. Red, over my hundred streams, 
are the light-covered paths of the dead. They rejoice 
on the eddying winds, in the season of night. Dwells 
there no joy in song, white-hand of the harps of Lutha ? 
Awake the voice of the string ; roll my soul to me. 
[t is a stream that has failed. Maivina, pour the song. 

1 hear thee from thy darkness in Selma, thou that 
vvatchest lonely by night ! Why didst thou withhold 
the song from Ossian's falling soul ? As the falling 
brook to the ear of the hunter, descending from his 
storm-covered hill, in a sunbeam rolls the echoing 
stream, he hears and shakes his dewy locks : such is 
he voice of Lutha to the friend of the spirits of heroes. 
23* 



270 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

My swelling bosom beats high. I look back on the 
days that are past. Come, thou beam that art lonely, 
from watching in the night ! 

In the echoing bay of Carmona we saw one day the 
bounding ship. On high hung a broken shield ; it was 
marked with wandering blood. Forward came a youth 
in arms, and stretched his pointless spear. Long, over 
his tearful eyes, hung loose his disordered locks. Fin- 
gal gave the shell of kings. The v\^ords of the stran- 
ger arose. " In his hall lies Cathmol of Clutha, by the 
winding of his own dark streams. Duth-carmor saw 
whitc-bosomed Lanul, and pierced her father's side. 
In the rushy desert were my steps. He fled in the 
season of night. Give thine aid to Cathlin to revenge 
his father. I sought thee not as a beam in a land of 
clouds. Thou, like the sun, art known, king of echo- 
ing Selma !" 

Selma's king looked around. In his presence we 
rose in arms. But who should lift the shield ? for all 
had claimed the war. The night came down ; wo 
strode in silence, each to his hill of ghosts, that spirits 
might descend in our dreams to mai-k us for the field. 
We struck the shield of the dead : we raised the hum 
of songs. We thrice called the ghosts of our fathers. 
We laid us down in dreams. Trenmor came, before 
mine eyes, the tall form of other years ! His blue 
hosts were behind him in half-distinguished rows. — 
Scarce seen is their strife in mist, or the stretching 
forward to deaths. I listened, but no sound was there. 
The forms were empty wind ! 

I started from the dream of ghosts. On a sudden 
blast flew my whistling hair. Low sounding, in the 
oak, is the departure of the dead. I took my shield 
from its bough. Onward came the rattling of steel. 
It was Oscar of Lego. He had seen his fathers. 
** As rushes forth the blast on the bosom of whitening 



TATHLIN OF CLUTHA. 271 

waves, so careless shall my course be, through ocean, 
to the dwelling of foes. I have seen the dead, my 
father ! My beating soul is high ! My fame is bright 
before me, like the streak of light on a cloud, when 
the broad sun comes forth, red traveller of the sky !" 

" Grandson of Branno," I said, " not Oscar alone 
shall meet the foe. 1 rush forward, through ocean, to 
the woody dwelling of heroes. Let us contend, my 
son, like eagles from one rock, when they lift their 
broad wings against the stream of winds." We raised 
our sails in Carmona. From three ships they marked 
my shield on the wave, as I looked on nightly Ton- 
thena,* red traveller between the .clouds. Four days 
came the breeze abroad. Lumon came forward in 
mist. In winds were its hundred groves. Sunbeams 
marked at times its brown side. White leapt the 
foamy streamy from all its echoing rocks. 

A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent 
with its own blue stream. Here, " midst the waving 
of oaks, were the dwellings of kings of old." But 
silence, for many dark-brown years, had settled in 
grassy Rath-col ; for the race of heroes had failed 
along the pleasant vale. Duth-carmor was here, with 
his people, dark rider of the wave ! Ton-thena had 
hid her head in the sky. He bound his white-bosomed 
sails. His course is on the hills of Rath-col to the 
seats of roes. We came. I sent the bard, with songs, 
to call the foe to fight. Duth-carmor heard him with 
'yy. The king's soul was like a beam of fire ; a beam 
of fire, marked with smoke, rushing, varied through 
the bosom of night. The deeds of Duth-carmor were 
dark, though his arm was strong. 

Night came with the gathering of clouds. By the 

* Ton-thena, " fire of the wave," was the remarkable star men- 
tioned in the seventh book of Temora, which directed the course 
of Lartlion to Ireland. 



272 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

beam of the oak we sal down. At a distance stood 
Cathlin of Clutha. I saw the changeful soul of the 
stranger. As shadows fly over the field of grass, so 
various is Cathlin's cheek. It was fair within locks, 
that rose on Rath-col's wind. I did not rush, amidst 
his soul, with my words. I bade the song to rise. 

*' Oscar of Lego," 1 said, " be thine the secret hill 
to-night.* Strike the shield like Morven's kings. 
With day thou shalt lead in war. From my rock 1 
shall see thee, Oscar, a dreadful form ascending in 
fight, like the appearance of ghosts amidst tlie storms 
they raise. Why should mine eyes return to the dim 
times of old, ere yet the song had bursted forth, like 
the sudden rising of winds ? But the years that are 
past are marked with mighty deeds. As the nightly 
rider of waves looks up to Ton-thena of beams, so let 
Us turn our eyes to Trenmor the father of kings." 

" Wide, in Caracha's echoing field, Carmal had 
poured his tribes. They were a dark ridge of waves. 
The gray-haired bards were like moving foam on their 
face. They kindle the strife around with their red- 
rolling eyes. Nor alone were the dwellers of rocks ; 
a son of Loda was there, a voice in his own dark land, 
to call the ghosts from high. On his hill he had dwelt 
in Lochlin, in the midst of a leafless grove. Five 
stones lifl;ed near their heads. Loud roared his rush- 
ing stream. He often raised his voice to the winds, 
when meteors marked their nightly wings, when the 
dark-robed moon was rolled behind her hill. Nor un- 
heard of ghosts was he ! They came with the sound 
of eagle-wings. They turned battle, in fields, before 
the kings of men. 

^ * This passage alludes to the well-known custom among the an- 
cient kings of Scotland, to retire from their army on the night pre 
ceding a battle. The story which Ossian introduces in the next 
para^aph, concerns the fall of the Druids. 



CATHLIN OF CLUTHA. 273 

" But Trenmor they turned not from battle. He 
drew forward that troubled war : in its dark skirt was 
Trathal, like a rising light. It was dark, and Loda's 
son poured forth his signs on night. The feeble were 
not before thee, son of other lands ! Then rose the 
strife of kings about the hill of night ; but it was soft 
as two summer gales, shaking their light wings on a 
lake. Trenmor yielded to his son, for the iPame of 
the king had been heard. Trathal came forth before 
his father, and the foes failed in echoing Caracha. 
The years that are past, my son, are marked with 
mighty deeds." 

In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe came 
forth in arms. The strife is mixed on Rath-col, like 
the roar of streams. Behold the contending of kings ! 
They meet beside the oak. In gleams of steel the 
dark forms are lost ; such is the meeting of meteors 
in a vale by night : red light is scattered round, and 
men foresee the storm I — Duth-carmor is low in blood ! 
The son of Ossian overcame ! Not harmless, in battle, 
was he, Malvina, hand of harps ! 

Nor, in the field, were the steps of Cathlin. The 
strangers stood by secret sti'eam, where the foam of 
Rath-col skirted the mossy stones. Above bends the 
branchy birch, and strews its leaves on wind. The 
inverted spear of Cathlin touched at times the stream. 
Oscar brought Duth-carmor's mail : his helmet with its 
eagle-wing. He placed them before the stranger, and 
his words were heard. " The foes of thy father have 
fallen. They are laid in the field of ghosts. Renown 
returns to Morven like a rising wind. Why art thou 
dark, chief of Clutha ? Is there cause for grief?" 

" Son of Ossian of harps, my soul is darkly sad. I 
behold the arms of Cathmol, which he raised in war-, 
Take the mail of Cathlin, place it high in Selma's hall, 
that thou mayest remember the hapless in thy distant 



274 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

land." From white breasts descended the mail. It 
was the race of kings : the soft-handed daughter of 
Cathmol, at the streams of Clutha ! Duth-carmor saw 
her bright in the hall ; he had come by night to 
Clutha. Cathmol met him in battle, but the hero fell. 
Three days dwelt the foe with the maid. On the 
fourth she fled in arms. She I'emembercd the race of 
kings, and felt her bursting soul ! 

Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell how 
Cathlin failed ? Her tomb is at rushy Lumon, in a 
distant land. Near it were the steps of Sul-malla, in 
the days of grief. She raised the song for the daugh- 
ter of strangers, and touched the mournful harp. 

Come from the watching of night, Malvina, lonely 
beam ! 



SUL-MM.LA OF LUMON. 



ARGUMENT. 

This poem, which, properly speaking, is a continuation of the last, 
opens with an address to Sul-malla, the daughter of the king of 
Inis-huna, whom Ossian met at the chase, as he returned from 
the battle of Kath-col. Sul-malla invites Ossian and Oscar to a 
feast, at the residence of her father, who was then absent on the 
wars. Upon hearing their names and family, she relates an ex- 
pedition of Fingal into Inis-huna. She casually mentioning Cath- 
rnor, chief of Atha, (who then assisted her father against his ene- 
mies,) Ossian introduces the episode of Culgorm and Suran-dronlo, 
two Scandinavian kings, in %yhose wars Ossian himself and Cath- 
mor were engaged on opposite sides. The story is imperfect, a 
part of the original being lost. Ossian, warned in a dream by the 
ghost of Trenmor, sets sail from Inis-huna. 

Who moves so stately on Liimon, at the roar of the 
foamy waters ? Her hair falls upon her heaving breast. 
White is her arm behind, as slow she bends the bow. 
Why dost thou wander in deserts, like a light through 
a cloudy field ? The young roes are panting by their 
secret rocks. Return, thou daughter of kings ! the cloudy 
night is near ! It was the young branch of green Inis- 
huna, Sul-malla of blue eyes. She sent the bard from 
her rock to bid us to her feast. Amidst the song we 
sat down in Cluba's echoing hall. White moved the 
hands of Sul-malla on the trembling strings. Half- 
heard, amidst the sound, was the name of Atha's king : 
he that was absent in battle for her own green land. 
Nor absent from her soul was he : he came 'midst her 
thoughts by night. Ton-thena looked in from the sky, 
and saw her tossing arms. 

The sound of shells had ceased. Amidst long locks 
Sul-malla rose. She spoke with bended eyes, and 
asked of our course through seas ; " for of the kings 



276 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

of men are ye, tall riders of the wave." " Not un. 
known," I said, *' at his streams is he, the father of 
our race. Fingal has been h^rd of at Cluba, blue* 
eyed daughter of kings. Not only at Crona's streams 
is Ossian and Oscar known. Foes tremble at our 
voice, and shrink in other lands." 

" Not unmarked," said the maid, " by Sul-malla, is 
the shield of Morven's king. It hangs high in my 
father's hall, in memory of the past, when Fingal came 
to Cluba, in the days of other years. Loud roared the 
boar of Culdarnu, in the midst of his rocks and woods. 
Inis-huna sent her youths ; but they failed, and virgins 
wej!»t over tombs. Careless went Fingal to Culdarnu. 
On his spear rolled the strength of the woods. He 
was bright, they said, in his locks, the first of mortal 
men. Nor at the feast were heard his words. His 
deeds passed from his soul of fjre, like the rolling of 
vapors from the face of the wandering sun. Not care- 
less looked the blue eyes of Cluba on his stately steps. 
In white bosoms rose the king of Selma, in the midst 
of their thoughts by night. But the winds bore the 
stranger to the echoing vales of his roes. Nor lost to 
other lands was he, like a meteor, that sinks in a 
cloud. He came forth, at times in his brightness, to 
the distant dwelling of foes. His fame came, like the 
sound of winds, to Ckiba's woody vale. 

" Darkness dwells in Cluba of harps ! the race of 
kings is distant far : in battle is my father Conmor ; 
and Lormar, my brother, king of streams. Nor dark- 
ening alone are they ; a i3eam from other lands is nigh ; 
the friend of strangers* in Atha, the troubler of the 
field. High from their misty hills looks forth the blue 
eyes of Erin, for he is far away, young dweller of their 
souls ! Nor harmless, white hands of Erin ! is Oath- 

♦ Cathmor, the son of Borbar-duthol 



SUL-MALLA OF LU310:\'. 277 

mor in the skirts of war ; he rolls ten thousand before 
him in his distant field." 

" Not unseen by Ossian," I said, " rushed Cathmor 
from his streams, when he poured his strength on 
I-thorno, isle of many waves ! In strife met two kings 
in I-thorno, Culgorm and Suran-dronlo : each from his 
echoing isle, stern hunters of the boar ! 

" They met a boar at a foamy stream ; each pierced 
him with his spear. They strove for the fame of the 
deed, and gloomy battle rose. From isle to isle they 
sent a spear broken and stained with blood, to call the 
friends of their fathers in their sounding arms. Cath- 
mor came from Erin to Colgorm, red-eyed king ; I 
aided Suran-dronlo in his land of boars. 

" We rushed on either side of a stream, which ro-ar- 
ed through a blasted heath. High broken rocks were 
round with all their bending trees. Near were two 
circles of Loda, with the stone of power, where spirits 
descended by night in dark-red streams of fire. There, 
mixed with the murmur of waters, rose the voice of 
aged men ; they called the forms of night to aid them 
in their war. 

" Heedless I stood with my people, where fell the 
foamy stream from rocks. The moon moved red from 
the mountain. My song at times arose. Dark, on the 
other side, young Cathmor heard my voice, for he lay 
beneath the oak in all his gleaming arms. Morning 
came : we rushed to the fight ; from wing to wing is 
the rolling pf strife. They fell like the thistle's head 
beneath autumnal winds. 

" In armor came a stately form : I mixed my strokes 
with the chief. By turns our shields are pierced : loud 
rung our steely mail. His helmet fell to the ground. 
In brightness shone the foe. His eyes, two pleasant 
flames, rolled between his wandering locks. I knew 
Cathmor of Atha, and threw my spear on earth. 
24 



278 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Dark vvc turned, and silent passed to mix with other 
foes. 

" Not so passed the striving kings. They mixed in 
echoing fray, like the meeting of ghosts in the dark 
wing of winds. Through either breast rushed the 
spears, nor yet lay the foes on earth ! A rock received 
their fall ; half-reclined they lay in death. Each held 
the lock of his foe : each grimly seemed to roll his 
eyes. The stream of the rock leapt on their shields, 
and mixed below with blood. 

" The battle ceased in I-thorno. The strangers met 
in peace : Cathmor from Atha of streams, and Ossian 
king of harps. We placed the dead in earth. Our 
steps were by Runar's bay. With the bounding boat 
afar advanced a ridgy wave. Dark was the rider of 
seas, but a beam of light was there like the ray of the 
sun in Stromlo's rolling smoke. It was the daughter 
of Suran-dronlo, wild in brightened looks. Her eyes 
were wandering flames amidst disordered locks. For- 
ward is her white arm with the spear ; her high-heav- 
ing breast is seen, white as foamy waves that rise, by 
turns, amidst rocks. They are beautiful, but terrible, 
and mariners call the winds ! 

" ' Come, ye dwellers of Loda !' she said : ' come, 
Carchar, pale in the midst of clouds ! Sluthmor that 
stridest in airy halls ! Corchtur, terrible in winds ! 
Receive from his daughter's spear, the foes of Suran- 
dronlo. No shadow at his roaring streams, no mildly 
looking form, was he ! When he took up his spear, 
the hawks shook their sounding wings : for blood was 
poured around the steps of dark-eyed Suran-dronlo. 
He lighted me no harmless beam to glitter on his 
streams. Like meteors I was bright, but I blasted the 
foes of Suran-dronlo.' " 

Nor unconcerned heard Sul-malla the praise of 



SUL-MALLA OF LUMON. 279 

Cathmor of shields. He was within her soul, like a 
fire in secret heath, which awakes at the voice of the 
blast, and sends its beam abroad. Amidst the song re- 
moved the daughter of kings, like the voice of a sum- 
mer breeze, when it lifts the heads of flowers, and curls 
the lakes and streams. The rustling sound gently 
spreads o'er the vale, softly-pleasing as it saddens the 
soul. 

By night came a dream to Ossian ; formless stooi 
the shadow of Trenmor. He seemed to strike the 
dim shield on Selma's streamy rock. I rose in my 
rattling steel : I knew that war was near ; before the 
winds our sails were spread, when Lumon showed its 
streams to the morn. 

Come from the watching night, Malvina, lonely 
beam ! 



THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 

ARGUMENT. 

Reflections on the poet's youth. An apostrophe to Selma. Oscar 
obtains leave to go to Inis-thona, an island of Scandinavia. The 
mournful story of Argon and Ruro, the two sons of the king of 
Inis-thona. Oscar revenges their death, and returns in triumph 
to Selma. A sohloquy by the poet himself. 

Our youth is like the dream of the hunter on the 
hill of heath. He sleeps in the mild beams of the sun : 
he awakes amidst a storm ; the red lightning flies 
around : trees shake their heads to the wind ! He looks 
back with joy on the day of the sun, and the pleasant 
dreams of his rest ! When shall Ossian's youth return? 
When his ear delight in the sound of arms ? When 
shall I, like Oscar, travel in the light of my steel ? 
Come with your streams, ye hills of Cona ! listen to 
the voice of Ossian. The song rises, like the sun, in 
my soul. I feel the joys of other times. 

I behold thy towers, O Selma! the oaks of thy shaded 
wall : thy streams sound in my ear ; thy heroes gather 
round. Fingal sits in the midst. He leans on the 
shield of Trenmor ; his spear stands against the wall ; 
he listens to the songs of his bards. The deeds of his 
arm are heard ; the actions of the king in his youth ! 
Oscar had returned from the chase, and heard the he- 
ro's praise. He took the shield of Braimo* from the 
wall ; his eyes were filled with tears. Red was the 
cheek of youth. His voice was trembling low. My 
spear shook its bright head in his hand : he spoke to 
Morven's king. 

" Fingal ! thou king of heroes ! Ossian, next to him 

♦ The father of Everallin, and grandfather to Oecar 



THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 281 

in war ! ye have fought in your youth ; your names 
are renowned in song. Oscar is like the mist of Cona; 
I appear and I vanish away. The bard will not know 
my name. The hunter will not search in the heath 
for my tomb. Let me fight, O heroes, in the battles 
of Inis-thona. Distant is the land of my war ! ye shall 
not hear of Oscar's fall : some bard may find me there ; 
some bard may give my name to song. The daughter 
of the stranger shall see my tomb, and weep over the 
youth, that came from afar. The bard shall say, at 
tlie feast, Hear the song of Oscar from the distant 
land !" 

" Oscar," replied the king of Morven, " thou shalt 
fight, son of my fame ! Prepare my dark-bosomed ship 
to carry my hero to Inis-thona. Son of my son, re- 
gard our fame ; thou art of the race of renown : let 
not the children of strangers say, Feeble are the sons 
of Morven ! Be thou, in battle, a roaring storm : mild 
as the evening sun in peace ! Tell, Oscar, to Inis-tho- 
na's king, that Fingal remembers his youth ; when we 
strove in the combat together, in the days of Agan- 
decca." 

They lifted up the sounding sail : the wind whistled 
through the thongs* of their masts. Waves lashed the 
oozy rocks : the strength of ocean roars. My son be- 
held, from the wave, the land of groves. He rushed 
into Runa's sounding bay, and sent his sword to Annir 
of spears. The gray-headed hero rose, when he saw 
the sword of Fingal. His eyes were full of tears; he 
remembered his battles in youth. Twice had they 
lifted the spear before the lovely Agandecca : heroes 
stood far distant, as if two spirits were striving in winds, 

" But now," began the king, " I am old ; the sword 
lies useless in my hall. Thou who art of Morven's 

* Leathei thongs were used among the Cehic nations, instead 
of ropes. 

24* 



282 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

race ! Annir has seen the battle of spears ; but now 
he is pale and withered, like the oak of Lano. I have 
no son to meet thee with joy, to bring thee to the halls 
of his fathers. Argon is pale in the tomb, and Ruro is 
no more. My daughter is in the hall of strangers : 
she longs to behold my tomb. Her spouse shakes ten 
thousand spears ; he comes a cloud of death from 
Lano. Come, to share the feast of Annir, son of 
ecl'ioing Morven ? 

Three days they feasted together ; on the fourth, 
Annir heard the name of Oscar. They rejoiced in the 
shell.* They pursued the boars of Runa. Beside 
the fount of mossy stones the weary heroes rest. The 
tear steals in secret from Annir : he broke the rising 
sigh. " Here darkly rest," the hero said, " the chil- 
dren of my youth. This stone is the tomb of Ruro ; 
that tree sounds over the grave of Argon. Do ye hear 
my voice, O my sons, within your narrow house ? Or 
do ye speak in these rustling leaves, when the wind of 
the desert rises ?" 

"King of Inis-thona," said Oscar, "how fell the 
children of youth ? The wild boar rushes over their 
tombs, but he does not disturb their repose. They pur- 
sue deer formed of clouds, and bend their airy bow. 
They still love the sport of their youth ; and mount the 
wind with joy." 

" Cormalo," replied the king, " is a chief of ten 
thousand spears. He dwells at the waters of Lano,f 
which sends forth the vapor of death. He came to 
Runa's echoing halls, and sought the honor of the 
spear. J The youth was lovely as the first beam of 

* To "rejoice in the shell," is a phrase for feasting sumptuously 
and drinking freely. 

t Lano was a lake of Scandinavia, remarkable in the days of 
Ossian for emitting a pestilential vapor in autumn. 

I By "the honor of the spear," is meant the tournament prac- 
tised among the ancient nortnern nations. 



THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 283 

the sun ; few were they who could meet him in fight ! 
My heroes yielded to Cormalo ; my daughter was 
seized in his love. Argon and Ruro returned from the 
chase ; the tears of their pride descend : they roll their 
silent eyes on Runa's heroes, who had yielded to a 
stranger. Three days they feasted with Cormalo ; on 
the fourth young Argon fought. But who could fight 
with Argon 1 Cormalo is overcome. His heart swelled 
with the grief of pride ; he resolved in secret to behold 
the death of my sons. They went to the hills of Runa ; 
they pursued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow of 
Cormalo flew in secret ; my children fell in blood. 
He came to the maid of his love ; to Inis-thona's long- 
haired maid. They fled over the desert. Annir re- 
mained alone. Night came on, and day appeared ; 
nor Argon's voice nor Ruro's came. At length their 
much-loved dog was seen ; the fleet and bounding 
Runa. He came into the hall and howled; and seemed 
to look towards the place of their fall. We followed 
him ; we found them here : we laid them by this mossy 
stream. This is the haunt of Annir, when the chase 
of the hinds is past. I bend like the trunk of an aged 
oak ; my tears for ever flow !" 

" O Ronnan !" said the rising Oscar, " Ogar, king 
of spears ! call my heroes to my side, the sons of 
streamy Morven. To-day v/e go to Lano's v/ater, 
that sends forth the vapor of death. Cormalo will not 
long rejoice : death is often at the point of our swords !" 

They came over the desert like stormy clouds, when 
the winds roll them along the heath ; their edges are 
tinged with lightning ; the echoing groves foresee the 
storm ! The horn of Oscar's battle is heard ; Lano 
shook over all its waves. The children of the lake 
convened around the sounding shield of Cormalo. Oscar 
fought as he v/as wont in war. Cormalo fell beneath 
his sword : the sons of dismal Lano fled to their se= 



284 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

cret vales ! Oscar brought the daughter of Inis-thonq 
to Annir's echoing halls. The face of age is bright 
with joy ; he blest the king of swords. 

How great was the joy of Ossian, when he beheld 
the distant sail of his son ! it was like a cloud of light 
that rises in the east, when the traveller is sad in i. 
land unknown : and dismal night with her ghosts, is 
sitting around in shades ! We brought him with songs 
to Selma's halls. Fingal spread the feast of shells. 
A thousand bards raised the name of Oscar : Morven 
answered to the sound. The daughter of Toscar was 
there ; her voice was like the harp, when the distant 
sound comes, in the evening, on the soft rustling breeze 
of the vale ! 

O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of 
my hills ! let the thick hazels be around, let the rus- 
tling oak be near. Green be the place of my rest ; 
let the sound of the distant torrent be heard. Daughu r 
of Toscar, take the harp, and raise the lovely soug of 
Selma ; that sleep may overtake my soul in the midst 
of joy ; that the dreams of my youth may return, and 
the days of the mighty Fingal. Selma ! I behold thy 
towers, thy trees, thy shaded wall ! I see the heroes 
of Morven ; I hear the song of bards : Oscar lifts the 
sword of Cormalo ; a thousand youths admire its stud- 
ded thongs. They look with wonder on my son : they 
admire the strength of his arm. They mark the joy 
of his father's eyes ; they long for an equal fame, and 
ye shall have your fame, O sons of streamy Morven ! 
My soul is often brightened with song ; I remembei 
the friends of my youth. But sleep descends in the 
sound of the harp ! pleasant dreams begin to rise ! Ys 
sons of the chase, stand far distant nor disturb my rest 
The bard of other times holds discourse with his fa 
thers ! the chiefs of the days of old ! Sons of the chase, 
stand far distant ! disturb not the dreams of Ossian I 



THE SONGS OF SELMA, 

ARGUMENT. 

Address to the evening star. Apostrophe to Fingal and his times. 
Minona sings before the king the song of the unfortunate Colma; 
and the bards exhibit other specimens of their poetical talents ; 
according to an annual custom estabUshed by the monarchs of 
the ancient Caledonians. 

Star of descending night ! fair is thy light in the 
west ! thou that liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud : 
thy steps arc stately on thy hill. What dost thou be- 
hold in the plain ? The stormy winds are laid. The 
murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring 
v/aves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening 
are on their feeble wings : the hum of their course is 
on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light ? But 
thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with 
joy around thee : they bathe thy lovely hair. Fare- 
well, thou silent beam ! Let the light of Ossian's souF 
arise ! 

And it does arise in its strength ! I behold my de- 
parted friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the 
days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery col- 
umn of mist ! his heroes are around : and see the bards 
of song, gray-haired UlHn ! Stately Ryno ! Alpin 
with the tuneful voice ! the soft complaint of Minona ! 
How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of 
Selma's feast ! when we contended, like gales of spring,- 
as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly- 
whistling grass. 

Minona came forth in her beauty : with downcast 
look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the 
blast; that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls 



286 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful 
voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the 
dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left 
alone on the hill, with all her voice of song ! Salgar 
promised to come: but the night descended around. 
Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the 
hill. 

Colma. It is night, I am alone, forlorn on the hill 
of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The 
torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me 
from the rain ; forlorn on the hill of winds ! 

Rise, moon ! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the 
night, arise ! Lead me, some light, to the place where 
my love rests from the chase alone ! his bow near him, 
unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I 
must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The 
stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice 
of my love ! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief 
of the hill, his promise ? Here is the rock, and here 
the tree ! here is the roaring stream ! Thou didst 
promise with night to be here. Ah ! whither is my 
Salgar gone ? With thee, I would fly from my father; 
with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race have 
long been foes ; we are not foes, O Salgar ! 

Cease a little while, O wind ! stream, be thou silent 
awhile ! let my voice be heard around. Let my wan- 
derer hear me ! Salgar ! it is Colma who calls. Here 
is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love ! I am here. 
Why delayest thou thy coming ? Lo ! the calm moon 
comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The 
rocks are gray on the steep, I see him not on the brow. 
His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near 
approach. Here I must sit alone ! 

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love 
and my brother ? Speak to me, O my friends ! To 
Colma they give no reply. Speak to me ; I am alone ! 



THE SONGS OF SELMA. 287 

My soul is tormented with fears ! Ah ! they are dead ! 
Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother ! 
my brother ! why hast thou slain my Salgar ? wJiy, O 
Salgar ! hast thou slain my brother 1 Dear were ye 
both to me ! what shall I say in your praise ? Tho/a 
wert fair on the hill among thousands ! he was terrible 
in fight. Speak to me ; hear my voice ; hear me, sons 
of my love ! They are silent ; silent for ever ! Cold, 
cold, are their breasts of clay ! Oh ! from the rock on 
the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, yc 
ghosts of the dead ! speak, I will not be afraid ! Whither 
are ye gone to rest ? In what cave of the hill shall I 
find the departed ? No feeble voice is on the gale : no 
answer half-drowned in the storm ! 

I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears ! 
Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not 
till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream : 
why should I stay behind ? Here shall I rest with my 
friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When 
night comes on the hill ; when the loud winds arise ; 
my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death 
of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. 
He shall fear but love my voice ! For sweet shall my 
voice be for my friends : pleasant were her friends to 
Colma ! 

Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter 
of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our 
souls were sad ! Ullin came with his harp ! he gave the 
song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant : the 
soul of Ryno was a beam of fire ! But they had rested 
in the narrow house : their voice had ceased in Selma. 
Ullin had returned, one day, from the chase, before the 
heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill ; their 
song was soft but sad ! They mourned the fall of Mo- 
rar, first of mortal men ! His soul was like the soul 
of Fingal : his sword like the sword of Oscar. But ho 



288 THE rOLMS OF OSSIAN. 

fell, and his father mourned : his sister's eyes were full 
of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of 
car-horne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, 
like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, 
and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp 
with Ullin ; the song of mourning rose ! 

Ryno. The wind and the rain are past ; calm is the 
noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over 
the green hilk flies the inconstant sun. Red through 
the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. 
Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream ! but more sweet is 
the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of 
song, mourning for the dead ! Bent is his head of age ; 
red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone 
on the silent hill 1 why complainest thou, as a blast in 
the wood ; as a wave on the lonely shore ? 

Alpin. My tears, O Ryno ! are for the dead ; my 
voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art 
on the hill ; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou 
shalt fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy 
tomb. The hills shall know thee no more \ thy bow 
shall lie in thy hall unstrung. 

Thou wert swift, O Morar ! as a roe on the desert ; 
terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the 
storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. 
Thy voice was a stream after rain ; like thunder on 
distant hills. Many fell by thy arm ; they were con- 
sumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst 
return from war, how peaceful was thy brow ! Thy 
face was like the sun after rain ; like the moon in the 
silence of night ; calm as the breast of the lake when 
the loud wind is laid. 

Narrow is thy dwelling now ! Dark the place of ' 
thine abode ! With three steps I compass thy grave* 
O thou who wast so great before ! Four stones, with ' 
their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A 



THB SONGS OF SELMA. 289 

tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, which whistles in 
the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the 
mighty Morar. Morar ! thou art low indeed. Thou 
nast no mother to mourn thee ; no maid with her tears 
of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen 
is the daughter of Morglan. 

Who on his staff is this ? who is this whose head is 
white with age ; whose eyes are red with tears ? who 
quakes at every step ? It is thy father, O Morar ! the 
father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in 
war ; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's 
renown ; why did lie not hear of his wound ? Weep, 
thou father of Morar ! weep ; but thy son heareth thee 
not. Deep is the sleep of the dead ; low their pillow 
of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice ; no more 
awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, 
to bid the slumberer awake 1 Farewell, thou bravest 
of men ! thou conqueror in the field ! but the field shall 
see thee no more ; nor the dark wood be lightened with 
the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. 
The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall 
hear of thee ; they shall hear of the fallen Morar. 

The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of 
Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell 
in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the hero, 
the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst the sigh 
of Armin 1 he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The 
song comes, with its music, to melt and please the soul. 
It is like soft mist, that, rising from a lake, pours on 
the silent vale ; the green flowers are filled with dew, 
but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone. 
Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded 
Gorma ? 

Sad I am ! nor small is my cause of wo. Carmor, 
thou hast lost no son ; thou hast lost no daughter c^ 
beauty. Colgar the valiant lives ; and Annira, fairest 
25 



290 THE rOKMS OF OSSIAN. 

maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor ? 
but Armiii is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O 
Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt 
thou awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of 
music ? 

Arise, winds of autumn, arise ; blow along the heath ! 
streams of the mountains, roar ! roar, tempests, in the 
groves of my oaks! walk through broken clouds, O 
moon ! show thy pale face, at intervals ! bring to my 
mind the night, when all my children fell ; when Arin- 
dal the mighty fell ! when Daura 'the lovely failed ! 
Daura, my daughter ! thou wert fair ; fair as the moon 
on Fura , white as the driven snow ; sweet as the 
breathing gale. Arindal, thy bov/ was strong. Thy 
spear was swift on the field. Thy look was like mist 
on the wave : thy shield, a red cloud in a storm. Ar- 
mar, renowned in war, came, and sought Daura's love. 
He was not long refused : fair was the hope of their 
friends ! 

Erath, son of Odgal, repined : his brother had been 
slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the 
sea : fair was his skiff on the wave ; white his locks 
of age ; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he 
said, lovely daughter of Armin ! a rock not distant in 
the sea bears a tree on its side : red shines the fruit 
afar ! There Arnmr waits for Daura. I come to carry 
his love ! She went ; she called on Armar. Nought 
answered, but the son of the rock.* Armar, my love! 
my lov3 ! why tormentest thou me witli fear ! hear, son 
of Arnart, hear : it is Daura who calleth thee ! Erath 
the traitor fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her 
voice ; she called for her brother and fi)r her fathc*. 
Arindal ! Armin ! none to relieve your Daura ! 



♦ By " the son of the rock," the pott means the echoing back 
of the human voice from a rock. 



THE SONGS OF SELMA. 291 

Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son de- 
scended from the hill ; rough in the spoils of the chase. 
His arrows rattled by his side ; his bow was in his 
hand ; five dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw 
fierce Erath on the shore : he seized and bound him to 
an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his 
limbs : he loads the winds with his groans. Arindal 
ascends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. 
Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feather- 
ed shaft. It sunk, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my 
son ! for Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar is 
stopped at once ; he panted on the rock and expired. 
What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is 
poured thy brother's blood ! The boat is broke in 
twain. Armar plunges into the sea, to rescue his 
Daura, or die. , Sudden a blast from a hill came over 
tlie waves. He sunk, and he rose no more. 

Alone en the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard 
to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries. What 
could her father do ? All night I stood on the shore. 
I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I 
heard her cries. Loud was the wind ; the rain beat 
hard on the hilL Before morning appeared her voice 
was weak. It died away, like the evening breeze 
among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief, she 
expired; and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my 
strength in war ! fallen my pride among women ! 
When the storms aloft arise ; when the north lifts the 
wave on high ! I sit by the sounding shore, and look 
on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon, I see 
the ghosts of my children. Half viewless, they walk in 
mournful conference together. Will none of you speak 
in pity. They do not regard their father. I am sad, 
O Carmor, nor small is my cause of wo. 

Such were the words of the bards in the days of 
sang; when the king heard the music of harps, the 



292 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from al» 
their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised^ 
the voice of Cona ;* the first among a thousand hards ! 
but age is now on mj tongue ; my soul has failed : _ 
hear, at times, the ghosts of bards, and learn then- 
pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. 1 hear: 
the call of years } they say, as they pass along, Why 
does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow 
house, and no bard shall raise his fame ! Roll on, ye 
dark-brown years ; ye bring no joy on your course ! 
Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength hasfailed,- 
The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, 
like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded 
rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles 
there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees! 

• Ossian is sometimes poetically called " the voice rf C >flA ** 



J 



riJNGAL- : 

AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM. 

BOOK I. 

ARGUBIENT. 

Cuthullin (general of the Irish tribes, in the minority of Cannae, 
king of Ireland) sitting alone beneath a tree, at the gate ofTura, 
a castle of Ulster (the other chiefs having gone on a hunting 
party to Cromla, a neighboring hill,) is informed of the landing of 
Swaran, king of Lochlin, bv Moran, the son of Fithil, one otliia 
ficouts. He convenes the cliiefs ; a council is held, and disiputes 
run high about givin^ battle to the enemy. Connel, the petty- 
king of Togorma, and an intimate friend of CuthuUin, was for 
fretreeting, till Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited 
the northwest coast of Scotland, whose aid had been previously 
sohcited, should arrive ; but Calmar, the son of Matha, lord of 
Lara, a country in Connaught, was for engaging the enemy im- 
mediately. Cuthuliin, of himself willing to Tignt, went into the 
opinion of Calmar. Marching towards the enemy, he missed 
three of his bravest heroes, Fergus, Duchomar, and Cathba. 
Fergus arriving, tells Cuthullin ot' the death of the two other 
chiefs: which introduces the aflecting episode of Morna, the 
daughter of Cormac. The army of Cuthulhn is descried at a 
distance by Swaran, who sent the son of Arno to observe the 
■motions of the enemy, while he himself ranged his forces in 
.order of battle. The son of A'lno returning to Swaran, describes 
to him CnthuU^n's chariot, and the terrible appearance of that 
hero. The armies engage, but night coming on, leaves the vic- 
tory undecided. CutHuUin, according to the hospitality of the 
times, sends to Swaran a formal invitation to a feast, by his bard 
Carril, the son of Kinfena. Swaran refuses to come. Carrii re- 
lates to Cuthulhn the story of Grudar and Brassohs. A party, by 
Connal's advice, is sent to observe the enemy ; which closes the 
action of the first day. 

Cuthullin sat by Tura's wall ; b}/' the tree of the 

rustUng sound. His spear leaned against the rock. 

His shield lay on the grass by his side. Amid his 

thoughts of mighty Cai/bar, a hero slain by the chief 

2B* 



294 THE roEMs of osstan. 

in war ; the scout of ocean comes, Moian the son of 
Fithil ! 

" Arise," said the youth, " CuthuUin, arise. I see 
the ships of the north ! Many, cliief of men, are the 
foe. Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran !" — 
" Moran !'' replied the blue-eyed chief, " thou ever 
tremblest, son of Fithil ! Thy fears have increased 
the foe. It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green 
Erin of streams." — " 1 beheld their chief," says Moran, 
" tall as a glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine. 
His shield the rising moon ! He sat on the shore ! 
like a cloud of mist on the silent hill ! Man}^, chief 
of heroes ! I said, many are our hands of war. Well 
art thou named, the mighty man ; but many mighty 
men are seen from Tura's windy walls. 

" He spoke, like a wave on a rock, ' Who in this 
land appears like me ? Heroes stand not in my pre- 
sence : they fall to earth from my hand. Who can 
meet Swaran in fisht ? Who but Fingal, kinc; of Sel- 
ma of storms ? Once we wrestled on Maimer ; our 
heels ovcrtarned the woods. Rocks fell from their 
place ; rivulets, changing their course, fled murmuring 
from our side. Three days vv^e renewed the strife ; 
heroes stood at a distance and trembled. On the 
fourth, Fingal says, that the king of the ocean fell ! 
but Swaran says he stood ! Lot dark Cuthullin yield 
to him, that is strong as the storms of his land !' " 

" No !" replied the blue-eyed chief, " I never yield 
to mortal man ' Dark Cuthullin shall be great or 
dead ! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the 
sounding shield of Semo. It hangs at Tara's rustling 
gate. The sound of peace is not its voice ! My heroes 
shall hear and obey." He went. He struck the 
bossy shield. The hills, the rocks reply. The sound 
spreads along the wood : deer start by the lake of roes. 
Curach leaps from the sounding rock ! and Connal of 



FTNGAL. 205 

the bloody spear ! Crugal's breast of snow beats high. 
The son of Favi leaves the dark-brown bJnd. It is the 
shield of war, said Ronnart ; the spear of CuthulHn, 
said Liigar ! Son of the sea, put on thy arms ! Cal- 
mar, lift thy sounding steel ! Puno ! dreadful hero, 
arise ! Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla ! Bend 
thy knee, O Eth ! descend from the streams of Lena. 
Caolt, stretch thy side as thou movest along the whist- 
ling heath of Mora : thy side that is white as the foam 
of the troubled sea, when the dark winds pour it on 
rocky Cuthon. 

Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their former 
deeds ! Their souls are kindled at the battles of old ; 
at the actions of other times. Their eyes are flames 
of lire. They roll in search of the foes of the land. 
Their mighty hands are on their swords. Lightning 
pours from their sides of steel. They come like 
streams from the mountains ; each rushes roaring from 
the hill. Bright arc the chiefs of battle, in the armor 
of their fathers. Gloomy and dark, their heroes follow 
like the gathering of the rain}^ clouds behind the red 
meteors of heaven. The sounds of crashing arms 
ascend. The gray dogs howl between. Unequal 
bursts the song of battle. Rocking Cromla echoes 
round. On Lena's dusky heath they stand, like mist 
lliat shades the hills of autumn ; v/hen broken and dark 
it settles high, and lifts its head to heaven. 

" Hail," said CuthuUin, " sons of the narrow vales ! 
hail, hunters of the deer ! Another sport is drawing 
near : it is like the dark rolling of that wave on the 
coast ! Or sha.ll we fight, ye sons of war ! or yield 
grecii^ Rrir! to Lochlin ? O Connal ! speak, thou first 
of m.cn ! thou breaker of the shields ! thou hast often 
fought with Lochlin : wilt thou lift thy father's spear ?" 

" Cuthullin !" calm the chief replied, " the spear of 
Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle, to mix 



296 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

with the blood of ihousands. But though my hand is 
bent on fight, my heart is for the peace of Erin.* Be- 
hold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable fleet of 
Swaran. His masts are many on our coasts, like reeds 
on the lake of Lego. His ships are forests clothed 
with mists, when the trees yield by turns to the squally 
wind. Many are his chiefs in battle. Qonnal is for 
poSLce ! Fingal would shun his arm, the firsToT'mbr- 
tal men ! Fingal who scatters the mighty, as stormy 
winds the echoing Cona ; and night settles with all her 
clouds on the hill !" 

" Fly, thou man of peace !" said Colmar, " fly," 
said the son of Matha ; "go, Connal, to thy silent hills, 
where the spear never brightens in war ! Pursue the 
dark-brown deer of Cromla : stop with thine arrows 
the bounding roes of Lena. But blue-eyed son of 
Semo, Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter thou the 
sons of Lochlin !f roar through the ranks of their pride. 
Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow bound on the 
dark-rolling waves of Inistore.if Eise, ye dark winds 
of Erin, rise ! roar, whirlwinds of Lara of hinds ! 
Amid the tempest let me die, tmm, in ji_clau^d^by_angry 
gliosta-jof jToen ; amid the tempest let Calmar die, if 
ever chase was sport to him, so much as the battle of 
shields ! 

" Calmar !" Connal slow replied, " I never fled, 
young son of Matha ! I was swift with my friends in 
fight ; but small is the fame of Connal ! The battle 
was won in my presence ! the valiant overcame ! But, 
son of Semo, hear my voice, regard the ancient throne 
of Cormac. Give wealth and half the land for peace, 
till Fingal shall arrive on our coast. Or, if war be thy 

* Erin, a name of Ireland ; for " ear," or " iar," west, and ** io** 
an island, 
t The Gaelic name of a Scandinavian general. 
X The Orkney islands. 



FINGAL. 297 

dioice, I lift the sword and spear. My joy shall be in 
the midst of thousands ; my soul shall alighten through 
the gloom of the tight !" 

" To me," Cuthullin replies, " pleasant is the noise 
of arms ! pleasant as the thunder of heaven, before 
the shower cf spring ! But gather all the shining 
tribes, that I may view the sons of war ! Let them 
pass along the heath, bright as the sunshine before a 
storm ; when the west wind collects the clouds, and 
Morven echoes over all her oaks ! But where are my 
friends in battle ? the supporters of my arm in danger ? 
Where art thou, white-bosomed Cathba ? Where is 
that cloud in war, Duchomar ? Hast thou left me, O 
Fergus ! in the day of the storm ? Fergus, first in 
our joy at the feast ! son of Rossa ! arm of death ! 
comest thou like a roe from Maimer ? like a hart from 
thy echoing hills ? Hail, thou son of Rossa ! what 
.shades the soul of war ?" 

" Four stones,'"* replied the chief, " rise on the grave 
of Cathba. These hands have laid in earth Ducho- 
mir, that cloud in war ! Cathba, son of Torman ! 
thou wort a sunbeam in Erin. And thou, O valiant 
DiichOmar ! a mist of the marshy Lano ; when it 
moves on the plains of autumn, bearing the death of 
thousands along. Morna ! fairest of maids ! calm is 
thy sleep in the cave of the rock ! Thou hast fallen 
in darkness, like a star, that shoots across the desert ; 
when the traveller is alone, and mourns the transient 
beam !" 

* This passage alludes to the manner of burial among the ancient 
Sr^cots. They opened a grave six or eight feet deep ; the bottom 
was lined with tine clay ; and on this they laid the body of the de- 
ceased, and, if a warrior, his sword, and the heads of twelve ar- 
rows by his side. Above they laid another stratum of clay, in 
which they placed the horn of a deer, the symbol of hunting. The 
whole was covered with a fine mould, and four stones placed on 
end to mark the extent of the grave. These are the four stonea 
alluded to here. 



298 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

" Say," said Seme's bluc-eycd son, " say how fell 
tlK; chiefs of Erin. Fell they by the sons of Lochlin, 
striving in the battle of heroes ? Or what confines the 
strong in arms to the dark and narrow house ?" 

" Cathba," replied the hero, " fell by the sword of 
Duchomar at the oak of the noisy streams. Duchomar 
came to Tura's cave ; he spoke to the lovely Morna. 
' Morna, fairest among v/omen, lovely daughter of 
strong-armed Corniac ! Why in the circle of stones : 
in the cave of the rock alone ? The stream murmurs 
along. The old tree groans in tlie wind. The lake is 
troubled before thee : dark are the clouds of the sky ! 
But thou art snow on the heath ; thy hair is the mist 
of Cromla ; when it curls on the hill, when it shines 
to the beam of the west ! Thy breasts are two smooth 
rocks seen from Branno of streams. Thy arms, like 
two white pillars in tlie halls of the great Fingal.' 

" ' From whence,' the fair-haired maid replied, ' from 
whence Duchomar, most gloom.y of men ? Dark are 
thy brov/s and terrible ! Red are tliy rolling eyes ! 
Does Swaran appear on the sea ? What of the foe, 
Duchomar V ' From the hill I return, O Morna, from 
the hill of the dark-brown hinds. Three have I slain 
with my bended yew. Three with my long-bounding 
dogs of the chase. Lovely daughter of Cormac, Hove 
thee as my soul : I have slain one stately deer for thee. 
High was his branchy head — and fleet his feet of wind.' 
* Duchomar !' calm the maid replied, ' I love thee not, 
thou gloomy man ! hard is thy heart of rock ; dark is 
thy terrible brow. But Cathba, young son of Torman, 
thou art the love of Morna. Thou art a sunbeam, in 
the day of the gloomy storm. Sawest thou the son of 
Torman, lovely on the hill of His hinds ? Here the 
dauo;hter of Cormac waits the cominfr of Cathba !" 

" ' Long shall Morna wait,' Duchomar said, ' long 
shall Morna wait for Cathba ! Behold this sword uu- 



FINGAL. 299 

sheathed ! Here wanders the blood of Cathba. Long 
shall Morna wait. He fell by the stream of Branno ! 
On Croma I will raise his tomb, daughter of blue- 
shielded Cormac ! Turn on Duchomar thine eyes ; his 
arm is strong as a storm.' ' Is the son of Torman 
fallen V said the wildly-bursting voice of the maid ; ' is 
he fallen on his echoing hills, the youth with the breast 
of snow ? the first in the chase of hinds ! tlue foe of 
the strangers of ocean ! Thou art dark""^ to me, Du 
chomar ; cruel is thine arm to Morna ! Give me that 
sword, my foe ! I loved the wandering blood of 
cathba!' 

" He gave the sword to her tears. She pierced his 
manly breast ! He fell, like the bank of a mountain- 
stream, and stretching forth his hand, he spoke : ' Daugh- 
ter of blue-shielded Cormac ! Thou hast slain me in 
youth ! the sword is cold in my breast ! Morna ; I 
feel it cold. Give me to Moina the maid. Duchomar 
was the dream of her night ! She will raise my tomb ; 
the hunter shall raise my fame. But draw the sword 
from m}^ breast. Morna, the steel is cold !' She came, 
in all her tears she came ; she drew the sword from 
his breast. He pierced her white side ! He spread her 
fair locks on the ground ! Her bursting blood sounds 
from her side: her white arm is stained with red. 
Rolling in death she lay. The cave re-echoed to her 
sighs." 

'' Peace," said Cuthullin, " to the souls of the heroes ! 
their deeds were great in fight. Let them ride around 
me on clouds. Let them show their features of war. 
My soul shall then be firm in danger ; mine arm like 
the thunder of heaven! But be thou on a moonbeam, 
O Morna ! near the window of my rest ; when my 
thoughts are of peace ; when the din of arms is past. 

* She alludes to his name the " dark man/* 



SOO THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Gather the strength of the tribes ! Move to the wars 
of Erin ! Attend the car of my battles ! Rejoice in 
the noise of my course ! Place three spears by my 
side : follow the bounding of my steeds ! that my soul 
may be strong in my friends, when battle darkens 
around the beams of my steel ! 

As rushes a stream of foam from the dai-k shady 
deep of Cromla, when the thunder is travelling above, 
and dark-brown night sits on half the hill. Through 
the breaches of the tempest look forth the dim faces 
of ghosts. So fierce, so vast, so terrible, rushed on 
the sons of Erin. The chief, like a whale of ocean, 
whom all his billows pursue, poured valor forth, as a 
stream, rolling his might along the shore. The sons 
of Lochlin heard the noise, as the sound of a winter 
storm. Swaran struck his bossy shield : he called the 
son of Arno. " What murmur rolls along the hill, like 
the gathered flies of the eve ? The sons of Erin de- 
scend, or rustling winds roar in the distant wood ! 
Such is the noise of Gormal, before the white tops of 
my waves arise. O son of Arno ! ascend the hill ; 
view the dark face of the heath !" 

He went. He trembling swift returned. His eyes 
rolled wildly round. Ilis heart beat high against his 
si<]e. His words were faltering, broken, slow. " Arise, 
son of ocean, arise, chief of the dark-brown shields ! 
I see the dark, the mountain-stream of battle ! the deep- 
moving strength of the sons of Erin ! the car of war 
comes on, like the (lame of death ! the rapid car of 
Cathullin, the noble son of Semo ! It bends behind, 
like a wave near a rock ; like a sun-streaked mist of 
the heath. Its sides are embossed with stones, and 
sparkle like the sea round the boat of night. Of pol- 
ished yew is its beam ; its seat of the smoothest bone. 
The sides are replenished with spears ; the bottom is 
the foot-stool of heroes ! Before the right side of the 



riNGAL. 30 i 

car is seen the snorting horse ! the high-maned, broad- 
breasted, proud, wide-leaping, strong steed of the hill. 
Loud and resounding is his hoof: the spreading of hid 
mane above is like a stream of smoke on a ridge of 
rocks. Bright are the sides of his steed ! his name is 
Sulin-Sifadda ! 

" Before the left side of the car is seen the snorting 
horse ! The thin-maned, high-headed, strong-hoofed 
fleet-bounding son of the hill : His name is Dusronnal, 
among the stormy sons of the sword ! A thousand 
thongs bind the car on high. Hard polished bits shine 
in wreath of foam. Thin thongs, bright studded with 
gems, bend on the stately necks of the steeds. The 
steeds, that like wreaths of mist fly over the streamy 
vaies ! The wildness of deer is in their c-oursc, the 
strength of eagles descending on the prey. Their 
noise is like the blast of winter, on the sides of the 
snow-headed Gormal. 

"Within the car is seen the chief; the strong- 
armed son of the sword. The hero's name is Cu- 
tliullin, son of Semo, king of shells. His red cheek 
is like my polished yew. The look of his blue- 
rolling eye is wide, beneath the dark arch of his 
brow. His hair flies from his head like a flame, as 
bending forward he wields the spear. Fly, king of 
ocean, fly ! He comes, like a storm along the streamy 
vale ! 

" When did I fly ?" replied the king ; " when fled 
Swaran from the battle of spears ? When did I shrink 
from danger, chief of the little soul ? I met the storm 
of Gormal when the foam of my waves beat high. 
I met the storm of the clouds ; shall Swaran fly from 
a hero ? Were Fingal himself before me, my soul 
should not darken with fear. Arise to battle, my thou- 
sands ! pour round me like the echoing main, gatlier 
round the bright steel of your king ; strong as the rocks 
26 



(302' THE rOEMS OF OSSTAN. 

of my land ; that meet the storm with joy, and stretch 
their dark pines to the wind !" 

Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two echo, 
ing hills, towards each other approached the heroes. 
Like two deep streams from high rocks meeting, mix- 
ing roaring on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark in bat- 
tle meet Lochlin and i.iis-fail. Chief mixes his strokes 
with chief, and man with man : steel, clanging, sounds 
I on steel. Helmets are cleft on high. Slood bursts 
/ and^mokes ai'ound. Strings murmur on the pohslied 
f yews. "Darts rush along the sky. Spears fall like the 
! circles of light, which gild the face of night : as the 
1 noise of the troubled ocean, when roll the waves on 
1 liigh. As the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is 
1 the din of war ! Though Cormac's hundred bards 
were there to give the fight to song ; feeble was the 
voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future 
times ! For many were the deaths of heroes ; wide 
poured the blood of the brave ! 

Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the 
noble Sithallin. Let the sons of Fiona rise, on the 
lone plains of her lovely Ardan. • They fell, like two 
hinds of the desert, by the hands of the mighty Swa- 
ran ; when, in the midst of thousands, he roared like 
the shrill spirit of a storm. He sits dim on the clouds 
of the north, and enjoys the death of the mariner. Nor 
slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the isle of mist !* 
many were the deaths of thine arm, Cuthullin, thou 
son of Semo ! His sword was like the beam of heaven 
when it pierces the sons of the vale ; when the people 
are blasted and fall, and all the hills are burning 
around. Dusronnal snorted over the bodies of heroes. 
Sifadda bathed his hoof in blood. The battle lay be- 

* Thif isle of Sky ; not improperly called the " isle of mist," aa 
Its high hills, which catch the clouds from the Western Ocean, oc- 
casion almost continual rains. 



FINGAL. 303 

hind them, as groves overturned on the deser< of Crom- 
la ; when the blast has passed the heath, laden with the 
spirits of night ! 

Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inis- 
tore ! Bend thy fair head over the v/aves, thou lovelier 
than the ghost of the hills, when it moves on the sun- 
beam, at noon, over the silence of Morven. He is 
fallen : thy youth is low ! pale beneath the sword of 
Cuthullin ! No more sh?dl valor raise thy love to match 
the blood of kings. Trenar, graceful Trenar died, O 
maid of Inistorc ! His gray dogs are howling at home : 
they see his passing ghost. His bow is in the hall un- 
strung. No sound is in the hall of his hinds ! 

As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's 
host came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves, so 
Erin met Swaran of spears. Death raises all his voices 
around, and mixes with the sounds of shields. Each 
liero is a pillar of darkness ; the sword a beam of fire 
in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a 
hundred hammers, that rise, by turns, on the red son 
of the furnace. Who are these on Lena's heath, these 
so gloomy and dark ? Who are these like two clouds, 
and their swords like lightning above them ? The little 
hills are troubled around ; the rocks tremble with all 
their m.oss. Who is it but ocean's son and the car-borne 
chief of Erin ? Many are the anxious eyes of their 
friends, as they see them dim on the heath. But night 
conceals the chiefs in clouds, and ends the dreadful 
fight ! 

It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had 
placed the deer ; the early fortune of the chase, before 
the heroes left the hill. A hundred youths collect the 
heath ; ten warriors wake the fire ; three huiidred 
choose the polished stones. The feast is smoking 
wide ! Cuthullin, chief of Erin's war, resumed his 
mighty soul. He stood upon his beamy speai*, ami 



304 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

spoke to the son of songs ; to Carril of other times, 
the gray-hcacled son of Kinfcna. " Is this feast spread 
for me alone, and the king of Lochlin on Erin's shore, 
far from the deer of his hills, and sounding halls of his 
feasts ? Rise, Carril of other times, carry my words 
to Swaran. Tell him from the roaring of waters, that 
CathuUin gives his feast. Here let him listen to the 
sound of my groves, amidst the clouds of night, for 
cold and bleak the bkistering winds rush over the foam 
of his seas. Here let him praise the trembling harp, 
and hear the songs of heroes !" 

Old Carril went with softest voice. He called the 
king of dark-brown shields ! Rise, from the skins of 
thy chase ; rise, Swaran, king of groves ! Cuthullin 
gives the joy of shells. Partake the feast of Erin's 
blue-eyed chief ! He answered like the sullen sound 
of Cromla before a storm. Though all thy daughters, 
Inis-fail, should stretch their arms of snow, should 
raise the heavings of their breasts, and softly roll their 
eyes of love, yet fixed as Lochlin's thousand rocks 
here Swaran should remain, till morn, with the young 
beams of the cast, shall light me to the death of Cu- 
thullin. Pleasant to my ear is Lochlin's wind ! It 
rushes over my seas ! It speaks aloft in all my shrouds, 
and brings my green forests to my mind : the green 
forests of Gormal, which often echoed to my winds 
when my spear was red in the chase of the boar. Let 
dark Cuthullin yield to me the ancient throne of Cor- 
mac, or Erin's torrents shall show from their hills the 
red foam of the blood of his pride ! 

" Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice," said Carril 
of other times ! " Sad to himself alone," said the 
blue-eyed son of Semo. " But, Carril, raise the voice 
on high ; tell the deeds of other times. Send thou tho 
night away in song, and give the joy of grief For 
many heroes and maids of love have moved on Inis- 



FINGAL. 305 

fail, and lovely are the songs of wo that are heard 
on Albion's rocks, when the noise of the chase is past, 
and the streams of Cona* answer to the voice of 
Ossian/' 

" In other days," Carril replies, " came the sons of 
<3cean to Erin ; a thousand vessels bounded on waves 
to Ullin's lovely plains. The sons of Inis-fail arose to 
meet the race of dark-brown shields. Cairbar, first 
of men, was there, and Grudar, stately youth ! Long 
had they strove for the spotted bull that lowed on Gol- 
bun's echoing heath. Each claimed him as his own. 
Death was often at the point of their steel. Side by 
side the heroes fought; the strangers of ocean fled. 
Whose name was fairer on the hill than the name of 
Cairbar and Grudar ? But, ah ! why ever lowed the 
bull on Golbun's echoing heath ? They saw him leap- 
ing like snow. The wrath of the chiefs returned. 

" On Lubar'sf grassy banks they fought ; Grudar 
fell in his blood. Fierce Cairbar came to the vale, 
where Brassolis, fairest of his sisters, all alone, raised 
the song of grief. She sung of the actions of Grudar, 
the youth of her secret soul. She mourned him in the 
field of blood, but still she hoped for his return. Her 
white bosom is seen from her robe, as the moon from 
the clouds of nigjht, when its edsje heaves white on the 
view from the darkness which covers its orb. Her 
voice was softer than the harp to raise the song of grief. 
Her soul was fixed on Grudar. The secret look of her 
eye was his. ' When shalt thou come in thine arms, 
hou mighty in the war V 

" * Take, Brassolis,' Cairbar came and said ; ' take, 
Brassolis, this shield of blood. Fix it on high within 
my hall, the armor of my foe !' Her soft heart beat 

* The Cona here mentioned is the small river that runs through 
Glenco in Argjleshire. 
t Lnbar, a river in Ulster. " Labhar/' Joud, noisv. 
26* 



300 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

against her sklc. Distracted, pale, she flew. She 
found her youth in all his blood ; she died on Cromla's 
heath. Here rests their dust, Guthullin ! these lonely 
vews sprung from their tombs, and shade them from 
the storm. Fair was Brassolis on the plain ! Stately 
was Grudar on the hill ! The bard shall preserve their 
names, and send them down to future times !'"' 

*• Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril," said the blue-eyed 
chief of Erin. Pleasant are the words of other times. 
They are like the calm shower of spring, when the sun 
looks on the field, and the light cloud flies over the 
hills. O strike the harp in praise of my love, the 
lonely sunbeam of Dunscaith ! Strike the harp in the 
praise of Bragela, she that I left in the isle of mist, the 
spouse of Semo's son ! Dost thou raise thy fair face 
from the rock to find the sails of Guthullin ? The sea 
is rolling distant far : its white foam deceives thee for 
my sails. Retire, for it is night, my love ; the dark 
winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to the halls of my feasts, 
think of the times that are past. I will not return till 
the storm of war is ceased. O Connal ! speak of vv^ar 
and arms, and send her from my mind. Lovely with 
her flow^ing hair is the white-bosomed daughter of 
Sorglan." 

Connal, slow to speak, replied, '' Guard against the 
race of ocean. Send thy troop of night abroad, and 
watch the strength of Swaran. Guthullin, I am for 
peace till the race of Selma come, till Fiugal come, 
the first of men, and beam, like the sim, on our fields !" 
The hero struck the shield of alarms, the warriors of 
the night moved on. The rest lay in the heath of 
ihe deer, and slept beneath the dusky wind. Tho 
ghosts* of the lately dead were near, and swam on 

♦ It was long the opinion of the ancient Scots, that a ghost was 
heard shrf eking near the place where a death was to happen soon 
after. 



FiNrrAL. 807 

the gloomy clouds; and far distant in the dark si- 
lence of Lena, the feeble voices of death were faintly 
heard. 



BOOK II. 

ARGUMENT. 



The ^host oi' Crugiil, one of the Irish heroes who was killed in 
battle, appearing to Connal, ibretells the deieat of CuthuUiu in 
the next battle, and earnest!}' advises him to make peace with 
Swaran. Connal communicates the vision ; but CuthuUin is in- 
flexible ; from a principle cf honor he would not be the lirst to 
sue for peace, and he resolved to continue the war. Morning 
comes ; Swaran proposes dishonorable terms to Cuthullln, which 
are rejected. The battle begins, and is obstinately fought for 
some time, until, upon the llight of (irumal, the w^hoie IrisR army 
gave way. CuthuUin and Connal cover their retreat. Cariil 
h^ads them to a neighboring hill, whitlier they are soon followed 
by CuthuUin himaelf, who descries the fleet of Fingal making 
towards their coast ; but night coming on, he lost sight of it 
again. CuthuUin, dejected after his defeat, attributes his iU suc- 
cess to the death of Ferda, his friend, whom he had killed some 
time before. Carril, to show that ill success did not always at- 
tend those who innocently killed their friends, introduces the 
episode of Connal and Galvina. 

Connal lay by the sound of the mountain-stream, 
beneath the aged tree. A stone, with its moss, sup- 
ported liis head. Shrill, through the heath of Lena, 
he heard the voice of night. At distance from the 
heroes he lay ; the son of the sword feared no foe ! 
The hero beheld, in his rest, a dark-red stream of fire 
rushing down from the hill. Crugal sat upon the beam, 
a chief who fell in fight. He fell by the hand of Swa- 
ran, striving in the battle of heroes. His face is like 
the beam of the setting moon. His robes are of the 
clouds of the hill. His eyes are two decaying flames. 



308 THE POEMS OF OSSIAK. 

Dark is the wound of his breast ! " Crugal," said the 
mighty Connal, " son of Dedgal famed on the hill of 
hinds ! Why so pale and sad, thou breaker of shields ? 
Thou hast never been pale for fear ! What disturbs 
the departed Crugal ?" Dim, and in tears he stood, 
aiid stretched his pale hand over the hero. Faintly he 
raised his feeble voice, like the gale of the reedy Lego. 

" My spirit, Connal, is on my hills ; my course on 
the sands of Erin. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, 
nor find his lone steps in the heath. I am light as the 
blast of Cromla. I move like the shadow of mist ! 
Connal, son of Colgar, I see a cloud of death : it 
hovers dark over the plains of Lena. The sons of 
green Erin must fall. Remove from the field of 
ghosts." Like the darkened moon he retired, in the 
midst of the whistling blast. " Stay," said the mighty 
Connal ; " stay, my dark-red friend. Lay by tb: t 
beam of heaven, son of windy Cromla ! What cl.vo 
is thy lonely house ? What green-headed hill the place 
of thy repose ? Shall we not hear thee in the storm ? 
in the noise of the mountain-fitream ? when the feeble 
sons of the wind come forth, and, scarcely seen, pass 
•over the desert ?" 

The soft-voiced Connal rose, in the midst of his 
sounding arms. He struck his shield above Culhullin. 
The son of battle waked. " Why," said the ruler of 
the car, " comes Connal through my night ? My spear 
might turn against the sound, and Cuthullin mourn the 
death of his friend. Speak, Connal ; soji of Colgar, 
speak ; thy counsel is the sun of heaven !" " Son of 
Semo !" replied the chief, " the ghost of Crugal came 
from his cave. The stars dim twinkled through his 
form. His voice was like the sound of a distant stream. 
He is a messenger of death ! He speaks of the dark 
and narrow house ! Sue for peace, O chief of Erin \ 
or ilv over the heath of Lena ! 



JINGAL. 309 

" He spoke to Connal," replied the hero, " though 
stars d-im twinkled through his form. Son of Colgar, 
it was the wind' that murmured across thy ear. Or if 
it was the form of Crugal, why didst thou not force 
him to my sight ? Hast thou inquired where is his 
cave ? the house of that son of wind ? My sword 
might find that voice, and force his knowledge frorr.^ 
Crugal. But small is his knowledge, Connal ; he was 
here to-day. He could not have gone beyond our 
hills ! who could tell him there of our fall ?" " Ghosts 
£y on clouds, and ride on winds," said Connal's voice 
of wisdom. " They rest together in their caves, and 
talk of mortal men.*' 

" Then let them talk of mortal men ; of every man 
but Erin's chief. Let me be forgot in their cave. I 
will not fly from Swaran ! If fall I must, my tomb 
shall rise amidst the fame of future times. The hunter 
shall shed a tear on my stone : sorrow shall dwell 
arotmd the high-bosomed Bragela. I fear not death ; 
t<y fly r fear ! Fingal has seen me victorious ! Thou 
dim phantom of the hill, show thyself to me ! come on^ 
thy beam of heaven, show me my death in thine hand ! 
yet I will not fly, thou feeble Ibn of the wind ! Go, 
son of Colgar, strike the shield. It hangs between the 
spears. Let my warriors rise to the sound in the midst 
of the battles of Erin. Though Fingal delays his 
coming with the race of his stormy isles, we shall flght, 
O Colgar's son, and die in the battle of heroes !'^ 

The sound spreads wide. The heroes rise, like the 
breaking of a blue-rolling wave. They stood on the 
heath, like oaks with all their branches round them, 
when they echo to the stream of frost, and their wither- 
ed leaves are rustling to the wind ! High Cromla'a 
head of clouds is gray. Morning trembles on the half- 
enlightened ocean. The blue mist swims slowly by, 
and hides the sons of Inis-fail ! 



r — ^' 

', 810 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

'' Rise ye," said the king of the dark-brown shields, 
" ye that came from Lochlin's waves. The sons of 
Erin have fled from our arms ; pursue them over the 
plains of Lena ! Morla, go to Cormac's hall. Bid 
them yield to Swaran, before his people sink to the 

Itomb, and silence spread over his isle." They rose, 
rustling like a flock of sea-fowl, when the waves expel 
them from the shore. Their sound was like a thousand 
\ streams, that meet in Cona's vale, when after a stormy 
I night, they turn their dark eddies beneath the pale light 
I of the morn. 

As the dark shades of autumn fly over the hills of 

grass, so gloomy, dark, successive came the chiefs of 

LochHn's echoing woods. Tall as the stag of Morven, 

\ moved stately before them tlie king. His shining shield 

is on his side, like a flame on the heath at night, when 

the world is silent and dark, and the traveller sees 

some ghosts sporting in the beam ! Dimly gleam the 

/ hills around, and show indistinctly their oaks ! A blast 

' from the troubled ocean removed the settled mist. The 

; sons of Erin appear, like a ridge of rocks on the coast ; 

\ when mariners, on shores unknown, are trembling at 

1 veering winds ! • 

" Go, Morla, go," said the king of Lochlin, " offer 
peace to these. Offer the terms we give to kings, 
when nations bow down to our swords. When the 
valiant are dead in war ; when virgins weep on the 
field !" Tall Morla came, the son of Swarth, and 
stately strode the youth along ! He spoke to Erin's 
blue-eyed chief, among the lesser heroes. " Take 
Swaran's peace," the warrior spoke, " the peace he 
gives to kings when nations bow to his sword. Leave 
Erin's streamy plains to us, and give thy spouse and 
dog. Thy spouse, high-bosomed heaving fair ! Thy 
dog that overtakes the wind ! Give these to prove the 
weakness of thine arm, live then beneath our power !" 



FINGAL 311 

" Tell Swaran, tell that heart of pride, Cuthullin 
never yields ! I give him the dark-rolling sea ; I give 
his people graves in Erin. But never shall a stranger 
have the pleasing sunbeam of my love. No deer shall 
fly on Lochlin's hills, before swift-footed Luath." 
" Vain ruler of the car," said Morla, " wilt thou then 
fight the king ? the king whose ships of many groves 
could carry off thine isle ! So little is thy green-hilled 
Erin to him who rules the stormy waves !*' " In words 
I yield to many, Morla. My sword shall yield to none. 
Erin shall own the sway of Cormac while Connal and 
Cuthullin live ! O Connal, first of mighty men, thou 
hcarest the words of Morla. Shall thy thoughts then 
be of peace, thou breaker of the shields ? Spirit of 
fallen Crugal, why didst thou threaten us with death ? 
The narrow house shall receive me in the midst of the 
light of renown. Exalt, ye sons of Erin, exalt the 
spear and bend the bow ; rush on the foe in darkness, 
as the spirits of stormy nights !" 

Then dismal, roaring fierce and deep, the gloom of 
battle poured along, as mist that is rolled on a valley 
when storms invade the silent sunshine of heaven. 
Cuthullin moves before me in arms, like an angry 
ghost before a cloud, when meteors enclose him with 
fire ; when the dark winds are in his hand. Carril, 
far on the heath, bids the horn of battle sound. He 
raises the voice of song, and pours his soul into the 
minds of the brave. 

" Where," said the mouth of the song, " where is 
the fallen Crugal ? He lies forgot on earth ; the hall 
of shells* is silent. Sad is the spouse of Crugal. She 
is a stranger in the hall of her grief. But who is she 
that, like a sunbeam, flies before the ranks of the foe ? 



* The ancient Scots, as well as the present Highlanders, dmnk 
n diells ; hence it is, that we so often meet in the old poetry, with 
'chief of shells," and "the hall o/" shells." 



-^ 



(Sl2 THE POEMS OF OSaiAN. 

It is Degrena, lovely fair, the spouse of fallen Crugal. 
Her hair is on the wind behind. Her eye is red ; her 
■^dice is shrill. Pale, empty, is thy Crugal now ! Hm 
form is in the cave of the hill. He comes to the ear 
of rest ; he raises his feeble voice, like the humming 
of the mountain-bee, like the collected flies of the eve ! 
But Degrena falls like a cloud of the morn ; the sword 
of Lochlin is in her side. Cairbar, she is fallen, the 
rising thought of thy youth ! She is fallen, O Cairbar I 
the thought of thy youthful hours !" 

Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound. He rush- 
ed along like ocean's whale. He saw the death of his 
daughter : he roared in the midst of thousands. His 
ypear met a son of Lochlin ! battle spreads from wing 
to wing ! As a hundred winds in Lochlin's groves, as 
fire in the pines of a hundred hills, so loud, so ruinous, 
so vast, the ranks of men are hewn down. Cuthullin 
cut off heroes like thistles ; Swaran wasted Erin. 
Curach fell by his hand, Cairbar of the bossy shield ! 
Morglan lies in lasting rest ! Ca-olt trembles as he 
dies ! His white breast is stained with blood ! his yel- 
}aw hair stretched in the dust of his native land ! He 
often had spread the feast where he fell. He often 
there had raised the voice of the harp, when his dogs 
leapt round for joy, and the youths of the chase pre- 
pared the bow ! 

Still Swaran advanced, as a stream that bursts from 
the desert. The little hills are rolled in its course, the 
rocks are half-sunk by its side. But Cuthullin stood 
before him, like a hill, that catches the clouds of 
heaven. The winds contend on its head of pines, the 
hail rattles on its rocks. But, firm in its strength, it 
stands, and shades the silent vale of Cona. So Cuthul- 
lin shaded the sons of Erin, and stood in the midst of 
thousands. Blood rises like the fount of a rock from 



KlNRAL. 313^^ 

panting heroes around. But Erin falls on either wing, 
like snow in the day of the sun. 

" O sons of Erin," said Grumal, " Lochlin conquers 
on the field. Why strive we as reeds against the 
wind ? Fly to the hill of dark-brown hinds." He fled 
like the stag of Morven ; his spear is a trembling beam 
of light behind him. Few fled with Grumal, chief of 
the little soul : they tell in the battle of heroes on Lena's 
echoing heath. High on his car of many gems the 
chief of Erin stood. He slew a mighty son of Lochlin, 
and spoke in haste to Connal. " O Connal, first of 
mortal men, thou hast taught this arm of death ! Though 
Erin's sons have fled, shall we not fight the foe ? Carril, 
son of other times, carry my friends to that bushy hill. 
Here, Connal, let us stand like rocks, and save our fly- 
ing friends." 

Connal mounts the car of gems. They stretch their 
shields, like the darkened moon, the daughter of the 
starry skies, v/hen she moves a dun circle through 
heaven, and dreadful change is expected by men. Sith- 
fadda panted up the hill, and Stronnal, haughty steed. 
Like waves behind a whale, behind them rushed the 
foe. Now on the rising side of Cromla stood Erin's 
few sad sons : like a grove through which the flame 
had rushed, hurried on by the winds of the stormy 
night ; distant, withered, dark, they stand, with not a 
leaf to shake in the vale. 

Cuthullin stood beside an oak. He rolled his red - 
eye in silence, and heard the wind in his bushy hair ; 1 
the scout of ocean came, Moran the son of Fithil. 
'' The ships," he cried, " the ships of the lonely isles. 
Fingal comes, the first of men, the breaker of the 
shields ! The waves foam before his black prows ! 
His masts with sails are like groves in clouds !"■— 
"Blow," said Cuthullin, ''blow, ye winds that rush 
along my isle of mist. Come to the death of tfiou- 
27 



314 TiiK vovMs or OSSIAIS-. 

sandsj O king of resounding vSclma ! Thy sails, my 
friend, are to me the clouds of the morning; thy ships 
the light of heaven ; and thou thyself a pillar of fire 
that beams on the world by night. O Connal, first of 
men, how pleasing in grief are our friends ! But the 
night is gathering around. Where now are the ships 
of Fingal ? Here let us pass the hours of darkness ; 
here wish for the moon of heaven." 

The winds came down on the woods. The torrents 
rush from the rocks. Rain gathers round the head of 
Cromla. The red stars tremble between the flying 
clouds. Sad, by the side of a stream, whose sound is 
echoed by a tree, sad by the side of a stream the chief 
\of Erin sits. Connal, son of Colgar, is there, and 
'Carril of other times. " Unhappy is the hand of Cu- 
thullin," said the son of Semo, " unhappy is the hand 
of CuthuUin since he slew his friend ! Ferda, son of 
Damman, I loved thee as myself!" 

" How, Cuthullin, son of Semo, how fell the breaker 
of the shields ? Well I remember," said Connal, " the 
son of the noble Damman. Tall and fair, he was like 
the rainbow of heaven. Ferda from Albion came, the 
chief of a hundred hills. In Muri's* hall he learned 
the sword, and won the friendship of Cuthullin. We 
moved to the chase together : one was our bed in the 
heath." 

Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of the 
plains of Ullin. She was covered with the light of 
beauty, but her heart was the house of pride. She 
loved that sunbeam of youth, the son of the noble 
Damman. " Cairbar," said the white-armed Deugala, 
" give me half of the herd. No more I will remain in 
your halls. Divide the herd, dark Cairbar !" " Let 
Cuthullin," said Cairbar, " divide my herd on the hill. 

* A plucc in Ulster 



FINGAL. 315 

His breast is the scat of justice. Depart, thou light 
of beauty !*' I went and divided the herd. One snow- 
white bull remained. I gave that bull to Cairbar. The 
wrath of Deugala rose ! 

" Son of Damman," began the fair, " Cuthullin hath 
pained my soul. I must hear of his death, or Lubar's 
stream shall roll over me. My pale ghost shall wan- 
der near thee, and mourn the wound of my pride. 
Pour out the blood of CuthuJiin, or pierce this heaving 
breast." " Deugala," said the fair-haired youth, " how 
shall I slay the son of Semo ? He is the friend of my 
secret thoughts. Shall I then lift the sword ?" She 
wept three days before the chief; on the fourth he 
said he would fight. " I will fight my friend^ Deugala, 
but may I fall by his sword ! Could I wander on the 
hill alone ? Could I behold the grave of Cuthullin V 
We fought on the plain of Mori. Our swords avoid a 
wound. They slide on the helmets of steel, or sound 
on the slippery shields. Deugala was near with a 
smile, and said to the son of Damman : " Thine arm 
is feeble, sunbeam of youth ! Thy years are not strong 
for steel. Yield to the son of Semo. He is a rock on 
Malmor." 

The tear is in the eye of youth. He faltering said 
to me : " Cuthullin, raise thy bossy shield. Defend 
thee from the hand of thy friend. My soul is laden 
with grief, for I must slay the chief of men." I sighed 
as the wind in the cleft of a rock. I lifted high the 
edge of my steel. The sunbeam of battle fell : the 
first of Cuthullin's friends ! Unhappy is the hand of 
Cuthullin since the hero fell !" 

" Mournful is thy tale, son of the car," said Carril 
of other times. " It sends my soul back to the ages 
of old, to the days of other years. Often have I heard 
of Comal, who slew the friend he loved ; yet victory 



316 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 



attended his steel : the battle was consumed in his 
presence !" 

Comal was the son of Albion, the chief of a hundred 
hills ! His deer drunk of a thousand streams. A 
thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His 
face was the mildness of youth ; his hand the death of 
heroes. One was his love, and fair was she, the daugh- 
ter of the mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sun- 
beam among women. Her hair was the wing of the 
raven. Her dogs were taught to the chase. Her 
bowstring sounded on the winds. Her soul was fixed 
on Comal. Often met their eyes of love. Their course 
in the chase was one. Happy were their words in 
secret. But Grumal loved the maid, the dark chief 
of the gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps 
in the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal. 

One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had con- 
cealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Con- 
loch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted 
haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms. 
A hundred shields of thongs were there ; a hundred 
helms of sounding steel. " Rest here," he said, "my 
love, Galbina : thou light of the cave of Ronan ! A 
deer appears on Mora's brow. I go ; but I will soon 
return." " I fear," she said, " dark Grumal, my foe : 
ne haunts the cave of Ronan ! I will rest among the 
arms; but soon return, my love !" 

He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of 
Conloch would try his love. She clothed her fair sides 
with his armor : she strode from the cave of Ronan ! 
he thought it was his foe. His heart beat high. His 
colof changed, and darkness dimmed his eyes. He 
drew the bow. The arrow flew. Galbina fell in 
blood ! He run with wildness in his steps : he called 
the daughter of Conloch. No answer in the lonely 
rock. Where art thou, O my love ? He saw at length 



FINGAL. 317 

!i§lil9„^yi^QS^^^''^^-^iingHP.Vi'^<^ the arrow he threw. 
" O Conloch's daughter ! is it tlioir?**^"He sunk upon 
her breast ! The hunters found the hapless pair ! He 
afterward walked the hill. But many and silent were 
his steps round the dark dwelling of his love. The 
fleet of the ocean came. He fought ; the strangers 
fled. He searched for death along the field. But who 
could ^slay the mighty Comal ? He threw away his 
dark-brown shield. An arrow found his manly breast. 
He slee]-)s with his loved Galbina at the noise of the 
sounding surge ! Their green tombs are seen by the 
mariner, when he bounds on the waves of the north. 



BOOK ni.* 

ARGUMENT. 

CuthuUin, pleased with the story of Carril, insists wi\:h that bard for 
more of his songs. He relates the actions of Fingal in Jliochhn. 
and death of Agandecca, the beautiful sister of Swaran. He had 
scarce finished, when Calniar, the son of Matha, who had advised 
the first battle, came wounded from the field, and told them of 
Swaran's design to surprise the remains of the Irish army. He 
himself proposes to witlistand singly the whole force of the ene- 
my, in a narrow pass, till the Irish should make good their retreat. 
Cuthullin, touched with the gallant proposal of Calmar, resolves 
to accompany him, and orders Carril to carry oli' the few that 
remained of the Irish. Morning comes, Calmar dies of his wounds ; 
and the ships of the Caledonians appearing, Swaran gives ovei j 
the pursuit of the Irish, and returns to oppose FingaPs landing. I 
Cuthullin, ashamed, after his defeat, to appear before Fingal, re-( 
tires to the cave of Tiira. Fingal engages the enemy, puts them \ 
to flight: but the coming on of night makes the victory not de- 
cisive. The king, who had observed the gallant behavior of his 
grandson Oscar, gives him advice concerning his conduct in 

f)eace and war. He recommends to him to place the example of 
lis fathers before his eyes, as the best model for his conduct ; 
which introduces the episode concerning Fainasollis, the daughter 
of the king of Craca, whom Fingal had taken under his protec- 
tion in his youth. Fillan and Oscar are despatched to obsei-ve 
the motions of the enemy by night: Gaul, the son of Morni, de- 
sires the command of the armyln the next battle, which Fingal 
promises to give him. Some general reflections of the poet close 
the third day. 

" Pleasant are the words of the song !" said Cu- 
thullin, " lovely the tales of other times ! They are like 
the calm dew of the morning on the hill of roes ! when 
the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled and 
blue on the vale. O Carril, raise again thy voice ! let 
me hear the song of Sclma : which was sung in my 

* The second night, since the opening of the poem, continues ; 
and Cuthullin, Connal, and Carril, still sit in the place described in 
the preceding book. 



FINGAL. 319 

halls oi' joy, when Fiiigal, king of shields, was there, 
and glowed at the deeds of his fathers. 

" Fingal ! thou dweller of battle," said Carril, "early 
were thy deeds in arms. Lochlin was consumed in 
thy wrath, wh-en thy youth strove in the beauty of 
maids. They smiled at the fair-blooming face of the 
hero ; but death was in his hands. He was strong as 
the waters of I^ora. His followers were the roar of a 
thousand streams. They took the king of Lochlin in 
war ; they restored him to his ship. His big heart 
swelled with pride ; the death of the youth was dark in 
his soul. For none ever but Fingal, had overcome the 
strength of the mighty Starno. He sat in the hall of 
his shells in Lochlin's woody land. He called the 
gray-haired Snivan, that often sung round the circle* 
of Loda ; when the stone of power heard his voice, and 
battle turned in the field of the valiant ! 

" ' Go, gray-haired Snivan,' Starno said : ' go to 
Ardven's sea-surrounded rocks. Tell to the king of 
Selma; he the fairest among his thousands; tell him 
I give to him my daughter, the loveliest maid that ever 
heaved a breast of snow. Her arms are white as the 
foam of my waves. Her soul is generous and mild. 
Let him come with his bravest heroes to the daughter 
of the secret hall !' Snivan came to Selma's hall : fair- 
haired Fingal attended his steps. His kindled soul 
flew to the maid, as he bounded on the waves of the 
north. ' Welcome,' said the dark-brow^n Starno, 'wel- 
come, king of rocky Morven ! welcome his heroes of 
might, sons of the distant isle ! Three days within my 
halls shall we feast; three days pursue my boars; 
that your fame may reach the maid who dwells in the 
secret hall.' 

* This passage most certainly alludes to tiie religion of Lochlin, 
and " the stone of power," here mentioned, is the image of one of 
the deities of Scandinavia. 



320 THE rOEMS Of OSSIAN. 

" Starno designed their death. He gave the feast 
of shells. Fingal, who doubted the foe, kept on his 
arms of steel. The sons of death were afraid: they 
fled from the eyes of the king. The voice of sprightly 
mirth arose. The trembling harps of joy were strung. 
Bards sung the battles of heroes ; they sung the heav- 
ing breast of love. Ullin, Fingal's bard, was there : 
the sweet voice of resounding Cona. He praised the 
daughter of Lochlin ; and Morven's* high-descend- 
ed chief. The daughter of Lochlin overheard. She 
left the hall of her secret sigh ! She came in all hei 
beauty, like the moon from the cloud of the east. 
Loveliness was round her as Iig*ht. Her steps were 
the music of songs. She saw the youth and loved him. 
He was the stolen sigh of her soul. Her blue eyes 
rolled on him in secret : she blessed the chief of re- 
sounding Morven. 

" The third day, with all its beams, shone bright on 
the wood of boars. Forth moved the dark-browed 
Starno ; and Fingal, king of shields. Half the day 
they spent in the chase ; the spear of Selma was red 
in blood. It was then the daughter of Starno, with blue 
eyes rolling in tears ; it was then she came with her 
voice of love, and spoke to the king of Morven. * Fin- 
gal, high-descended chief, trust not Starno's heart of 
pride. Within that wood he has placed his chiefs. 
Beware of the wood of death. But remember, son ol 
the isle, remember Agandecca ; save me from the 
wrath of my father, king of the windy Morven !' 

" The youth with unconcern went on ; his heroes 
by his side. The sons of death fell by his hand; and 
Gormal echoed around ! Before the halls of Starno the 
sons of the chase convened. The king's dark brows 



♦ All the northwest eoast of Scotland probably went, of old, iiiv 
der the name of Morven. v-'I^m**^ fiianiiies a ridp^'' of very high niile 



FINGAI 321 

were like clouds ; his eyes like meteors of night. 
* Bring hither,' he said, ' Agandecca to her lovely king 
of Murven ! His hand is stained with the blood of my 
people ; her words have not been in vain !' She came 
with the red eye of tears. She came with loosely 
flowing locks. Her white breast heaved with broken 
sighs, like the foam of the streamy Lubar. Starno 
pierced her side with steel. She fell, like a wreath of 
snow, which slides from the rocks of Ronan, when the 
woods are still, and echo deepens in the vale ! Then 
Fingal eyed his valiant chiefs : his valiant chiefs took 
arms ! The gloom of battle roared : Lochlin fled or 
died. Pale in his bounding ship he closed the maid 
of the softest soul. Her tomb ascends on Ardven j the 
sea roars round her narrow dwelling." 

" Blessed be her soul," said CuthuUin ; " blessed be 
the mouth of the song ! Strong was the youth of Fingal ; 
strong is his arm of age. Lochlin shall fall again be- 
fore the king of echoing Morven. Show thy face from 
a cloud, O moon ! light his white sails on the wave : 
and if any strong spirit of heaven sits on that low-hung 
cloud ; turn his dark ships from the rock, thou rider 
of the storm !" 

Such were the words of Cuthullin at the sound of 
the mountain stream ; whenjCalmar ascended the hill, 
the wounded son of Matha. From the field he came 
in his blood. He leaned on his bending spear. Feeble 
is the arm of battle ! but strong the soul of the hero ! 
'•' Welcome ! O son of Matha," said Connal, "welcome 
art thou to thy friends ! Why bursts that broken sigh 
from the breast of him who never feared before?" 
" And never, Connal, will he fear, chief of the pointed 
steel ! My soul brightens in danger : in the noise of 
arms I am of the race of battle. My fathers never 
fearcd. 

"Cormar was the first of my race. He sported 



Q<d 



y^\cj\. '^ r^^ 



h^ 



822 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

through the storms of waves. His black skiff bounded 
on ocean ; he travelled on the v/ings of the wind. A 
spirit once embroiled the night. Seas swell and rocks 
resound. Winds drive along the clouds. The light- 
ning flies on wings of fire. He feared, and came to 
land, then blushed that he feared at all. He rushed 
again among the waves, to find the son of the wind. 
Three youths guide the bounding bark : he stood with 
sword unsheathed. When the low-hung vapor passed, 
he took it by the curling head. He searched its dark 
womb with his steel. The son of the wind forsook the 
air. The moon and the stars returned ! Such was the 
boldness of my race. Calmar is like his fathers. Dan- 
ger flies from the lifted sword. They best succeed 
who dare ! 

" But now, ye sons of green Erin, retire from Lena's 
bloody heath. Collect the sad remnant of our friends, 
and join the sword of Fingal. 1 heard the sound of 
Lochlin's advancing arms : Calmar will remain and 
fight. My voice shall be such, my friends, as if thou- 
sands were behind me. But, son of Semo, remember 
me. Remember Calmar's lifeless corse. When Fin- 
gal shall have wasted the field, place me by some stone 
of remembrance, that future times may hear my fame ; 
that the mother of Calmar may rejoice in my renown." 

" No : son of Matha," said Cuthullin, " I will never 
leave thee here. My joy is in an unequal fight : my 
soul increases in danger. Connal, and Carril of other 
times, carry off the sad sons of Erin. When the battle 
is over, search for us in this narrow way. For near 
this oak we shall fall, in the streams of the battle of 
thousands ! O Fithal's son, with flying speed rush over 
the heath of Lena. Tell to Fingal that Erin is fallen! 
Bid the king of Morven come. O let him come like 
the sun in a storm, to lighten, to restore the isle !" 

Morning is gray on Cromla. The sons of the sea 



FIKGAL. 323 

ascend. Ualniar stood forth to meet them in the pride 
of his kindhng soul. But pale was the face of tlie 
chief. He leaned on his father's spear. That spear 
which he brought from Lara, when the soul of his mo- 
ther was sad ; the soul of the lonely Alcletha, waning 
in the sorrow of years. But slowly nov/ the hero falls, 
like a tree on the plain. Dark Cuthullin stands alone 
like a rock in a sandy vale. The sea comes with its 
waves, and roars on its hardened sides. Its head is 
covered with foam : the hills are echoing round. 

Now from the gray mist of the ocean the white- 
sailed ships of Fingal a])pcar. High is the grove of 
their masts, as they nod, by turns, on the rolling wave. 
Swaran saw them from the hilL He returned from the 
sons of Erin. As ebbs the resounding sea, through 
the hundred isles of Inistore ; so loud, so vast, so im- 
mense, returned the sons of Lochlin against the king. 
But bending, weeping, sad, and slow, and dragging his 
long spear behind, Cuthullin sunk in Cromla's wood, 
and mourned his fallen friends. He feared the face 
of Fingal, who was wont to greet him from the fields 
of renown ! 

" How many lie there of my heroes ! the chiefs of 
Erin's race ! they that were cheerful in the hall, when 
the sound of the shells arose ! No more shall I find 
their steps in the heath ! No more shall 1 hear thei* 
voice in the chase. Pale, silent, low on bloody beds, 
are they who were my friends ! O spirits of the lately 
dead, meet Cuthullin on his heath ! Speak to him on 
the winds, when the rustling tree of Tura's cave re- 
sounds. There, far remote, I shall lie unknown. No 
bard shall hear of me. No gray stone shall rise to 
my renown. Mourn me with the dead, O Bragela ! 
departed is my fame." Such were the words of Cu- 
thullin, when he sunk in the woods of Cromla ! 

Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance 



324 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

before him. Terrible v/as the gleam of his steel : it 
was like the green meteor of death, setting in the heath 
of Malmor, when the traveller is alone, and the broad 
moon is darkened in heaven. 

" The battle is past," said the king. " I behold tho 
blood of my friends. Sad is the heath of Lena ! mourn- 
ful the oaks of Cromla ! The hunters have fallen in 
their strength : the son of Semo is no more ! Ryno and 
Fillan, my sons, sound the horn of Fingal. Ascend 
that hill on the shore ; call the children of the foe. 
Call them from the grave of Lamderg, the chief of 
other times. Be your voice like that of your father, 
when he enters the battles of his strength ! I wait for 
the mighty stranger. I wait on Lena's shore for Swa- 
ran. Let him come with all his race ; strong in battle 
are the friends of the dead !" 

Fair Ryno as lightning gleamed along : dark Fillan 
rushed like the shade of autumn. On Lena's heath 
their voice is heard. The sons of ocean heard the 
horn of Fingal. As the roaring eddy of ocean return- 
ing from the kingdom of snows : go strong, so dark, so 
sudden, came down the sons of Lochlin. The king in 
their front appears, in the dismal pride of his arms ! 
Wrath burns on his dark-brown face ; his eyes roll in 
the fire of his valor. Fingal beheld the son of Starno : 
he remembered Agandecca. For Swaran with tears 
of youth had mourned his white-bosomed sister. He 
sent Ullin of songs to bid him to the feast of shells : 
for pleasant on Fingal's soul returned the memory of 
the first of his loves ! 

Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno's 
son. *' O thou that dwellest afar, surrounded, like a 
rock, with thy waves ! come to the feast of the king, 
and pass the day in rest. To-morrow let us fight, O 
Swaran, and break the echoing shields." — " To-day," 
said Starno's wrathful son, "we break the echoing 



FINGAL, ;j25 

shields : to-morrow my feast shall be spread ; but Fin- 
gal shall lie on earth." — " To-morrow let his feast be 
spread," said Fingal, with a smile. " To-day, O my 
sons ! we shall break the echoing shields. Ossian, stand 
thou near my arm. Gaul, lift thy terrible sword, 
Fergus, bend thy crooked yew. Throw, Fillan, thy 
lance through heaven. Lift your shields, like the 
darkened moon. Be your spears the meteors of death. 
Follow me in the path of my fame. Equal my deeds 
in battle." 

Asa hundred winds on Morven ; as the streams of 
a hundred hills ; as clouds fly successive over heaven ; 
as the dark ocean assails the shore of the desert : so 
roaring, so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's 
echoing heath. The groans of the people spread over 
the hills : it was like the thunder of night, when the 
cloud bursts on Cona ; and a thousand ghosts shriek 
at once on the hollow wind. Fingal rushed on in his 
strength, terrible as the spirit of Trenmor ; when in a 
whirlwind he comes to Morven, to see the children of 
his pride. The oaks resound on their mountains, and 
the rocks fall down before him. Dimly seen as 
lightens the night, he strides largely from hill to .hill. 
Bloody was the hand of my father, when he whirled 
the gleam of his sword. He remembers the battles of 
his youth. The field is wasted in its course ! 

Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the brow 
of Gaul. Fergus rushed forward with feet of wind; 
Fillan like the mist of the hill. Ossian, like a rock, 
©ame down. I exulted in the strength of the king. 
Many were the deaths of my arm ! dismal the gleam 
of my sword ! My locks were not then so gray ; nor 
trembled my hands with age. My eyes were not closed 
in darkness ; my feet failed not in the race ! 

Who can relate the deaths of the people ? who the 
deeds of mighty heroes ? when Fingal, burning in hia 
28 



326 TIIK rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

wrath, consumed the sons of Lochlin ? Groans swelled 
on groans from hill to hill, till night had covered all. 
Pale, staring like a herd of deer, the sons of Lochlin 
convene on Lena. We sat and heard the sprightly 
harp, at Lubar's gentle stream. Fingal himself was 
next to the foe. He listened to the tales of his bards 
His godlike race were in the song, the chiefs of other 
times. Attentive, leaning on his shield, the king of 
Morven sat. The wind whistled through his locks ; 
his thoughts are of the days of other years. Near him, 
on his bending spear, my young, my valiant Oscar 
stood. He admired the king of Morven : his deeds 
were swelling in his soul. 

*' Son of my son," began the king, " O Oscar, pride 
of youth : I saw the shining of the sword. I gloried 
in my race. Pursue the fame of our fathers ; be thou 
what they have been, when Trenmor lived, the first of 
men, and Trathal, the father of heroes ! They fought 
the battle in their youth. They are the song of bards. 
O Oscar ! bend the strong in arm ; but spare the feeble 
hand. Be thou a stream of many tides against the foes 
of thy people ; but like the gale, that moves the grass, 
to those who ask thine aid. So Trenmor lived ; such 
Trathal was; and such has Fingal been. My arm 
was the support of the injured ; the weak rested behind 
the lightning of my steel. 

" Oscar ! I was young, like thee, when lovely Fain- 
asollis came : that sunbeam ! that mild light of love ^ 
the daughter of Craca's* king. I then returned from 
Cona's heath, and few were in my train. A white- 
sailed boat appeared far oft'; we saw it like a mist, that 
rode on ocean's wind. It soon approached. We saw 
the fair. Her white breast heaved with sighs. The 

♦ What the Craca here mentioned was, it is not, at this distance 
of time, easy to determine. The motit probable opinion is, that it 
was one of the Shetland isles. 



FINGAL, 327 

wind was in her loose dark hair ; her rosy cheek had 
tears. * Daughter of beauty,' calm I said, ' what sigh is 
in thy breast ? Can I, young as I am, defend thee, 
dauglitcr of the sea ? My sword is not unmatched in 
war, but dauntless is my heart.' 

*• ' To thee I fly,' with sighs she said, ' prince of 
mighty men ! To thee I fly, chief of the generous 
shells, supporter of the feeble hand! The king of 
Craca's echoing isle owned me the sunbeam of his 
race. Cromla's hills have heard the sighs of love for 
unhappy Fainasollis ! Sora's chief beheld me fair ; he 
loved the daughter of Craca. His sword is a beam of 
light upon the warrior's side. But dark is his brow ; 
and tempests are in his soul. I shun him on the roar- 
ing sea ; but Sora's chief pursues.' 

" ' Rest thou,' I said, ' behind my shield ! rest in peace, 
thou beam of light ! The gloomy chief of Sora will 
fly, if Fingal's arm is like his soul. In some lone cave 
I might conceal thee, daughter of the sea. But Fingal 
never flies. Where the danger threatens, I rejoice in 
the storm of spears.' I saw the tears upon her cheek. 
I pitied Craca's fair. Now, like a dreadful wave afar, 
appeared the ship of stormy Borbar. His masts high- 
bended over the sea behind their sheets of snow. White 
roll the waters on either side. The strength of ocean 
sounds. ' Come thou,' I said, ' from the roar of ocean, 
thou rider of the storm. Partake the feast within my 
hall. It is the house of strangers.' 

" The maid stood trembling by my side. He drew 
the bow. She fell. 'Unerring is thy hand,' I said, 
'but feeble was the foe.' We fought, nor weak the 
strife of death. He sunk beneath my sword. We 
laid them in two tombs of stone ; the hapless lovers of 
youth ! Such have I been, in my youth, O Oscar ! be 
thou like the age of Fingal. Never search thou for 
battle J nor shun it when it comes = 



328 THE roEMs of ossian. 

" Filial! and Oscar of the dark-brown hair ! ye that 
are swift in the race ! fly over the heath in my pre- 
sence. View the sons of LochUn. Far off I hear the 
noise of their feet, hke distant sounds in woods. Go : 
that they may not fly from my sword, along the waves 
of the north. For many chiefs of Erin's race lie here 
on the dark bed of death. The children of war are 
low ; the sons of echoing Cromla." 

The heroes flew like two dark clouds : two dark 
clouds that arc the chariots of ghosts ; when air's dark 
children come forth to frighten hapless men. It was 
then that Gaul, the son of Morni, stood like a rock in 
night. His spear is glittering to the stars ; his voice 
like many streams. 

" Son of battle," cried the chief, " O Fingal, king 
of shells ! let the bards of many songs sooth Erin's 
friends to rest. Fingal, sheath thou thy sword of death ; 
and let thy people fight. We wither away without our 
fame ; our king is the only breaker of shields ! When 
morning rises on our hills, behold at a .distance our 
deeds. Let Lochlin feel the sword of Morni's son ; 
that bards may sing of me. Such was the custom 
heretofore of Fingal 's noble race. Such was thine 
own, thou king of swords, in battles of the spear." 

"O son of Morni," Fingal replied, "I glory in thy 
fame. Fight ; but my spear shall be near, to aid thee 
in the midst of danger. Raise, raise the voice, ye sons 
of song, and lull me into rest. Here will Fingal lie, 
amidst the wind of night. And if thou, Agandecca, 
art near, among the children of thy land ; if thou sittest 
on a blast of wind, among the high-shrouded masts of 
Lochlin ; come to my dreams, my fair one ! Show 
thy bright face to my soul." 

Many a voice and many a harp, in tuneful sounds 
arose. Of Fingal noble deeds they sung ; of Fingal's 
noble race : and sometimes, on the lovely sound was 



FINGAL. 329 

heard the name of Ossian. I often fought, and often 
won in battles of the spear. But bhnd, and tearful, 
^nd forlorn, I walk with little men ! Fingal, with thy 
race of war I now behold thee not. The wild roes 
feed on the green tomb of the mighty king of Morven ! 
Blest be thy soul, thou king of swords, thou most re- 
nowned on the hills of Cona ! 



BOOK IV. .y 

ARGUMENT. 

The action of the poem being suspended by night, Ossian takes the 
opportunity to relate his own actions at the lake of Lego, and 
his courtship of Everallin, who was the mother of Oscar, and 
had died some time before the expedition of Fingal into Ireland. 
Her ghost appears to him, a.nd tells him that Oscar, who had 
been sent, the beginning of the night, to obsene the enemy, was 
engaged with an advanced party, and ahnosl overpowered. Os- 
sian reheves his son ; and an alarm is given to Fingal of the ap- 
proach of Swaran. The king rises, calls his army together, and, 
as he had promised the preceding night, devolves the command 
on Gaul the son of Momi, while'^he himself, after charging his 
sons to behave gallantly and defend his people, rglij:e§ to a hill, 
from whence he could have a view of the battleT The battle 
joins ; the poet relates Oscar's great actions. But when Oscar, 
m conjunction with his father, conquered in one wing, Gaul, 
who was attacked by Swaran in person, was on the point of re- 
treating in the other. Fingal sends UiUn his bard to encourage 
them with a war song, but notwithstanding Swaran prevails; and 
Gaul and his army are obliged to give way. Eingal descending 
from the hill, rallies them again ; Swaran desists from the pursuit, 
possesses himself of a rising ground, restores the ranks, and waits 
the approach of Fingal. The king, having encouraged his men, 
gives the necessary""orders, and renews the battle. Cuthullin, 
who, with his friend Connal, and Carril his bard, had retired to 
the cave of Tura, hearing the noise, came to the brow of the 
hill, which overlooked the field of battle, where he saw Fingal 
engaged with the enemy. He, being hindered by Connal from 
joining Fingal, who was himself upon the point of obtaining a 
complete victory, sends Carril to congratulate that hero on nis 
success. 

Who comes with her songs from the hill, like the 
bow of the showery Lena ? It is the maid of the voice 
28* 



330 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

of love ! the white-armed daughter of Toscar ! Often 
hast thou heard my song; often given the tear of 
, beauty. Dost thou come to the wars of thy people ? 
to hear the actions of Oscar ? When shall I cease to 
mourn, by the streams of resounding Cona ? My years 
have passed away in battle. My age is darkened with 
grief! 

" Daughter of the hand of snow, I was not so mourn- 
ful and blind ; I was not so dark and forlorn, when 
Everallin loved me ! Everallin with the dark-brown 
hair, the white-bosomed daughter of Branno. A thou- 
sand heroes sought the maid, she refused her love to a 
thousand. The sons of the sword were despised : for 
graceful in her eyes was Ossian. I went, in suit of the 
maid, to Lego's sable surge. Twelve of my people 
were there, the sons of streamy Morven ! We came 
to Branno, friend of strangers ! Branno of the sounding 
mail ! ' From whence,' he said, ' are the arms of steel 1 
Not easy to win is the maid, who has denied the blue- 
eyed sons of Erin. But blest be thou, O son of Fin- 
gal ! Happy is the maid that waits thee ! Though 
twelve daughters of beauty were mine, thine were the 
choice, thou son of fame !' 

" He opened the hall of the maid, the dark-haired 
Everallin. Joy kindled in our manly breasts. We 
blest the maid of Branno. Above us on the hill ap- 
peared the people of stately Cormac. Eight were the 
heroes of the chief. The heath flamed wide with their 
arms. There Colla ; there Durra of wounds ; there 
mighty Toscar, and Tago ; there Frcsta the victorious 
stood ; Dairo of the happy deeds ; Dala the battle's bul- 
wark ill the narrow way ! The sword flamed in the 
hand of Cormac. Graceful was the look of the hero! 
Eight were the heroes of Ossian. Ullin, stormy son 
of war. Mulio of the generous deeds. The noble, 
the graceful Scelacha. Oglan. and Gerdan the wrath- 



FINGAL. 331 

ful. Dumariccan's brows of death. And why should 
Ogar be the last ; so wide-renowned on the hills of 
Ardven ? 

" Ogar met Dala the strong face to face, on the field 
of heroes. The battle of the chiefs was like wind, on 
ocean's foamy waves. The dagger is remembered by 
Ogar; the weapon which he loved. Nine times he 
drowned it in Dala's side. The stormy battle turned. 
Three times I broke on Cormac's shield : three times 
he broke his spear. But, unhappy youth of love ! I 
cut his head away. Five times I shook it by the lock. 
The friends of Cormac fled. Whoever would have 
told me, lovely maid, when then I strove in battle, that 
blind, forsaken, and forlorn, I now should pass the 
night ; firm ought his mail to have been ; unmatched 
his arm in war." 

On Lena's gloomy heath the voice of music died 
away. The inconstant blast blew hard. The high 
oak shook its leaves around. Of Everallin were my 
thoughts, when in all the light of beauty she came ; 
her blue eyes rolling in tears. She stood on a cloud 
before my sight, and spoke with feeble voice ! " Rise, 
Ossian, rise, and save my son ; save Oscar, prince of 
men. Near the red oak of Luba's stream he fights 
with Lochlin's sons." She sunk into her cloud again. 
I covered me with steel. My spear supported my 
steps ; my rattling armor rung. I hummed, as I was 
wont in danger, the songs of heroes of old. Like dis- 
tant thunder Lochlin heard. They tied ; my son pursued. 

I called him like a distant stream. " Oscar, return 
ovei" Lena. No further pursue the foe," I said, " though 
Ossian is behind thee." He came ! and pleasant to 
my car was Oscar's sounding steel. " Why didst thou 
stop my hand," he said, "till death had covered all ? 
For dark and dreadful by the stream they met thy son 
and Fillan. They watched thf terrors of the night. 



332 THE POEMS OF 06SIAN. 

Our swords have conquered some. But as the winds 
of night pour the ocean over the white sands of Mora, 
so dark advance the sons of LochUn, over Lena's rus- 
tling heat ! The ghosts of night shriek afar : I have 
seen the meteors of death. Let me awake the king 
of Morven, he that smiles in danger ! He that is Uke 
the sun of heaven, rising in a storm !" 

Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned on 
Trenmor's shield ! the dark-brown shield of his fathers, 
which they had lifted of old in war. The hero had 
seen, in his rest, the mournful form of Agandecca. 
She came from the way of the ocean. She slowly, 
lonely, moved over Lena. Her face was pale, like the 
mist of Cromla. Dark were the tears of her cheek. 
She often raised her dim hand from her robe, her robe 
which was of the clouds of the desert : she raised her 
dim hand over Fingal, and turned away silent eyes ! 
•' Why weeps the daughter of Starno?" said Firg.u 
with a sigh ; " why is thy face so pale, fair wandoiir 
of the clouds ?" She departed on the wind of Lena. 
She left him in the midst of the night. She mourned 
the sons of her people, that were to fall by the hand 
of Fingal. 

The hero started from rest. Still he beheld her 
in his soul. The sound of Oscar's steps approach- 
ed. The king saw the gray shield on his side : foi 
the faint beam of the morning came over the waters 
of Ullin. " What do the foes in their fear ?" said the 
rising king of Morven : "or fly they through ocean's 
foam, or wait they the battle of steel ? But why should 
Fingal ask ? I hear their voice on the early wind ! Fly 
over Lena's heath : O Oscar, awake our friends !" 

The king stood by the stone of Lubar. Thrice he 
reared his terrible voice. The deer started from the 
fountains of Cromla. The rocks shook on all their 
hills. Like the noise of a hundred mountain-streams, 



FINGAL. 333 

that burst, and roar, and foam ! like the clouds, that 
gather to a tempest on the blue face of the sky ! so 
met the sons of the desert, round the terrible voice of 
Fingal. Pleasant was the voice of the king of Mor- 
ven to the warriors of his land. Often had he led 
them to battle ; often returned with the spoils of the 
foe. 

" Come to battle," said the king, " ye children of 
echoing Selma ! Come to the death of thousands! 
ComhaPs son will see the fight. My sword shall wave 
on the hill, the defence of my people in war. But 
never may you need it, warriors ; while the son of 
Morni fights, the chief of mighty men ! He shall lead 
my battle, that his fame may rise in song ! O ye ghosts 
of heroes dead ! ye riders of the storm of Cromla ! re- 
ceive my falling people with joy, and bear them to your 
hills. And may the blast of Lena carry them over my 
seas, that they may come to my silent dreams, and de- 
light my soul in rest. Fillan and Oscar of the dark- 
brown hair ! fair Ryno, with the pointed steel ! ad- 
vance with valor to the fight. Behold the son of Morni ! 
Let your swords be like his in strife : behold the deeds 
of his hands. Protect the friends of your father. 
Remember the chiefs of old. My children, I will see 
you yet, though here you should fall in Erin. Soon 
shall our cold pale ghosts meet in a cloud, on Cona's 
eddying winds." 

Now like a dark and stormy cloud, edged round 
with the red lightning of heaven, flying westward from 
tiie morning's beam, the king of Selma removed. Ter- 
rible is the light of his armor ; two spears are in his 
hand. His gray hair falls on the wind. He often 
looks back on the war. Three bards attend the son 
of fame, to bear his words to the chiefs. High on 
Cromla's side he sat, waving the lightning of his sword, 
and as he waved we moved. 



334 TIIF. I'OEMS OF 0,SSIAN. 

Joy rises in Oscar's face. His check is red. His 
eye sheds tears. Tiie sword is a beam of fire in his 
hand. He came, and smiling, spoke to Ossian. '' O 
ruler of the fight of steel ! my father, hear thy son ! 
Retire with Morven's mighty chief. Give me the fame 
of Ossian. If here I fall, O chief, remember that breast 
of snow, the lonely sunbeam of my love, the white- 
handed daughter of Toscar ! For, with red cheek 
from the rock, bending over the stream, her soft hair 
flies about her bosom, as she pours the sigh for Oscar. 
Tell her I am on my hills, a lightly-bounding son of 
the wind ; tell her, that in a cloud I may meet the 
lovely maid of Toscar." " Raise, Oscar, rather raise 
my tomb. I will not yield the war to thee. The first and 
bloodiest in the strife, my arm shall teach thee how to 
fight. But remember, my son, to place this sword, 
this bow, the horn of my deer, within that dark and 
narrow house, whose mark is one gray stone ! Oscar, 
I have no love to leave to the care of my son. Ever- 
allin is no more, the lovely daughter of Branno !" 

Such were our words, when Gaul's loud voice came 
growing on the wind. He waved on high the sword 
of his father. We rushed to death and wounds. As 
waves, white bubbling over the deep, come swelling, 
roaring on ; as rocks of ooze meet roaring waves ; so 
foes attacked and fought. Man met with man, and 
steel with steel. Shields sound and warriors fall. As 
a hundred hammers on the red son of the furnace, so 
rose, so rung their swords ! 

Gaul rushed on, like a whirlwind in Ardven. The 
destruction of heroes is on his sword. Swaran was 
like the fire of the desert in the echoing heath of Gor- 
mal ! How can I give to the song the death of many 
spears ? My sword rose high, and flamed in the strife 
of blood. Oscar, terrible wert thou, my best, my 
greatest son ! I rejoiced in my secret soul, when hivSi 



FINGAL. 335 

sword flamed over the slain. They fled amain through 
Lena's heath. We pursued and slew. As stones that 
bound from rock to rock ; as axes in echoing woods ; 
as thunder rolls from hill to hill, in dismal broken 
peals ; so blow succeeded to blow, and death to death, 
from the hand of Oscar and mine. 

But Swaran closed round Morni's son, as the strength 
of the tide of Inistore. The king half rose from his 
hill at the sight. He half-assumed the spear. " Go, 
UUin, go, my aged bard," began the king of Morven. 
" Remind the mighty Gaul of war. Remind him of 
his fathers. Support the yielding fight with song ; for 
song enlivens war." Tall Ullin went, with step of 
age, and spoke to the king of swords. " Son of the 
chief of generous steeds ! high-bounding king of spears ! 
Strong arm in every perilous toil ! Hard heart that 
never yields ! Chief of the pointed arms of death ! Cut 
down the foe ; let no white sail bound round dark 
Inistore. Be thine arm like thunder, thine eyes like 
fire, thy heart of solid rock. Whirl round thy sword 
as a meteor at night : lift thy shield like the flame of 
death. Son of the chief of generous steeds, cut down 
the foe ! Destroy !" The hero's heart beat high. But 
Swaran came with battle. He cleft the shield of Gaul 
in twain. The sons of Selma fled. 

Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared 
his dreadful voice. Cromla answered around. The; 
sons of the desert stood still. They bent their blush- 
ing faces to earth, ashamed at the presence of the king. 
He came like a cloud of rain in the day of the sun, 
when slow it rolls on the hill, and fields expect the 
shower. Silence attends its slow progress aloft ; but 
the tempest is soon to rise. Swaran beheld the terri- 
ble king of Morven. He stopped in the midst of his 
course. Dark he leaned on his spear, rolling his red 
eyes around. Silent and tall he seemed as an oak on 



036 TllK rOKMS OK OSSIAN. 

ihe banks of Lubar, wliich had its branches blasted of 
old by the lightning of heaven. It bends owqy the 
stream : the gray moss whistles in the wind : so stood 
the king. Then slowly he retired to the rising heath 
of Lena. His thousands pour round the hero.' Dark- 
ness gathers on the hill ! 

Fingal, like a beam of heaven, shone in the midst 
of his people. His heroes gather around him. He 
sends forth the voice of his power. " Raise my stand- 
ards on high ; spread them on Lena's wind, like the 
flames of a hundred hills ! Let them sound on the 
wind of Erin, and remind us of the fight. Ye sons of 
the roaring streams, that pour from a thousand hills be 
near the king of Morven ! attend to the words of his 
power ! Gaul, strongest arm of death ! O Oscar, of 
the future fights ! Connal, son of the blue shields of 
Sora ! Dermid, of the dark-brown hair ! Ossian, king 
of many songs, be near your father's arm !" We 
reared the sunbeam* of battle ; the standard of the 
king ! Each hero exulted with joy, as, waving, it flew 
on the wind. It was studded with gold above, as the 
blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each hero had his 
standard too, and each his gloomy men ! 

" Behold," said the king of generous shells, " how 
[iochlin divides on Lena ! They stand like broken 
clouds on a hill, or a half-consumed grove of oaks, 
when we see the sky through its branches, and the 
meteor passing behind ! Let every chief among the 
friends of Fingal take a dark troop of those that frown 
so high : nor let a son of the echoing groves bound on 
the waves of Inistore I" 

'* Mine," said Gaul, " be the seven chiefs that came 

* Fingal's standard was distinguished by the name of" sunbeam :" 
probably on account of its bright color, and by its being studded 
with gold. To be^in a battle is expressed, in old composition, by 
"' lifting of the sunbeam.'- 



FINGAL. 337 

from Lano's lake.^' " Let Inistore's dark king,^' said 
Oscar, " come to the sword of Ossian's son." " To 
mine the king of Iniscon," said Connal, heart of steel ! 
" Or Mudan's chief or I," said brown-haired Dermid, 
" shall sleep on clay-cold earth." My choice, though 
now so weak and dark, was Terman's battling king ; 
1 promised with my hand to win the hero's dark-broWn 
shield. " Blest and victorious be my chiefs," said 
Fingal of the mildest look. " Swaran, king of roaring 
waves, thou art the choice of Fingal !" 

Now, like a hundred different winds that pour 
through many vales, divided, dark the sons of Selma 
advanced. Cromla echoed around ! How can I re- 
late the deaths, when we closed in tiie strife of arms ? 
O, daughter of Toscur, bloody were our hands ! The 
gloomy ranks of Lochlin fell like the banks of roaring 
Cona ! Oar arms were victorious on Lena : each 
chief fulfilled his promise. Beside the murmur of 
Branno thou didst often si;, O maid ! thy white bosom 
rose frequent, like the down of the swan when slow 
she swims on the lake, and sidelong winds blow on her 
ruffled wing. Thou hast seen the sun retire, red and 
slow behind his cloud : night gathering round on the 
mountain, while the unfrequent blast roared in the nar- 
row vales. At length the rain beats hard : thunder 
rolls in peals. Lightning glances on the rocks ! Spirits 
ride on beams of fire ! The strength of the mountain 
streams comes roaring down the hills. Such was the 
noise of battle, maid of the arms of snow ! Why, 
daughter of Toscar, why that tear ? The maids of 
Lochlin have cause to weep ! The people of their 
country fell. Bloody were the blue swords of the race 
of my heroes ! But I am sad, forlorn, and blind : no 
more the companion of heroes ! Give, lovely maid, 
to me thy tears, I have seen the tombs of all my 
friends I 

2P 



338 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

It was then, by Fingal's hand, a hero fell, to his 
grief! Gray-haired lie rolled in the dust. He lifted 
his faint eyes to the king. " And is it by me thou hast 
fallen," said the son of Comhalj " thou friend of Agan- 
decca ? I have seen thy tears for the maid of my love 
in the halls of the bloody Starno ! Thou hast been tte 
foe of the foes of my love, and hast thou fallen by my 
hand ? Raise, Ullin, raise the grave of Mathoii, and 
give his name to Agandecca's song. Dear to my 
soul hast thou been, thou darkly-dwelling maid of 
Ardven !" 

Cuthullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the noise 
of the troubled war. He called to Connal, chief of 
swords : to Carril of other times. The gray-haired 
heroes heard his voice. They took their pointed spears. 
They came, and saw the tide of battle, like ocean's 
crowded waves, when the dark wind blows from the 
deep, and rolls the billows through the sandy vale ! 
Cuthullin kindled at the sight. Darkness gathered on 
his brow. His hand is on the sword of his fathers : 
his red-rolling eyes on the foe. He thrice attempted 
to rush to battle. He thrice was stopped by Connal. 
" Chief of the isle of mist," he said, " Fingal subdues 
the foe. Seek not a part of the fame of the king ; 
himself is like the storm !" 

" Then, Carril, go," replied the chief, " go greet the 
king of Morvcn. When Lochhn falls away Jike u 
stream after rain ; when the noise of the battle is past ; 
then be thy voice sweet in his ear to praise the king 
of Selma ! Give him the sword of Cailhbat. Cuthul- 
lin is not worthy to lift the arms of his fathers ! Come., 
O ye ghosts of the lonely Cromla ! ye souls of chiefs 
that are no more ! be near the ste{)s of Cuthullin ; talk 
to him in the cave of his grief. Never more shall I 
be renowned anions the niii'htv in the land. I am a 
beam that has shone ; a mist that has fled away : wh«n 



FINGAL. 339 

the blast of the morning came, and brightened the 
shaggy side of the hill. Connal, talk of arms no more ! 
departed is m.y fame. My sighs shall be on Cromla's 
wind, till my footsteps cease to be seen. And thou, 
white-bosomed Bragela ! mourn over the fall of my 
fame : vanquished, I will never return to thee, thou 
sunbeam of my soul !" 



BOOK V. / 

y 

ARGUBIENT, 



Cuthullin and Connal still remain on the hill. Fingal and Swaran 
meet : the combat is described. Swaran is overcome, bound, 
and delivered over as a prisoner to the care of Oasian, and Gaul, 
the Fon of Morni ; Fingal, his younger sons, and Oscar, still pur- 
sue the enemJ^ The epit^odc of Orla, a chief of LochUn, who 
was mortally wounded in the batde, is introduced. Fingal, 
touched with the death of Orla, orders the pursuit to be discon- 
tinued ; and calling his sons together, he i.s informed that Ryno, 
the youngest of them, was slain. He laments his death, hears the 
story of Lamderg and Gelcho^a, and returns towards the place 
where he had left Swaran. Carril, who had been sent by Cu- 
thullin to congratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the mean- 
time to Ossian. The conversation of the two poets closes the 
action of the fourth day. 

On Cromla's resounding side Connal spoke to the 
chief of the noble car. Why that gloom, son of Semo ? 
Our friends are the mighty in fight. Renowned art 
thou, O warrior ! many were the deaths of thy steel. 
Often has Bragela met, with blue-rolling eyes of joy : 
often has she met her hero returning in the midst of 
the valiant, when his sword was red with slaughter, 
when his foes were silent in the fields of the tomb. 
Pleasant to her ears were thy bards, when thy deeds 



340 THE roEMs or ossian. 

But behold the king of Morven ! He moves, below, 
like a pillar of fire. His strength is like the stream of 
Lubav, or the wind of the echoing Cromla, when the 
branchy forests of night ore torn from all their rocks. 
Happy arc thy people, O Fingal ! thine arm shall 
finish their wars. Thou art the first in their dangers : 
the wisest in the days of their peace. Thou speake&t, 
and thy thousands obey : armies tremble at the sound 
of thy steel. Happy arc thy people, O Fingal ! king 
of resounding Selma. Who is that so dark and terri- 
ble coming in the thunder of his course ? who but 
Starno's son, to meet the king of Morven ? Behold 
the battle of the chiefs ! it is the storm of the ocean, 
when two spirits meet far distant, and contend for the 
rolling of waves. The hunter hears the noise €>n his 
hill. He sees the high billows advancing to Ardven's 
shore. 

Such were the words of Connal when the heroes met 
in fight. There was the clang of arms ! there every 
blow, like the hundred hammers of the furnace ! Ter- 
rible is the battle of the kings ; dreadful the look of 
their eyes. Their dark-brown shields are cleft in 
twain. Their steel flies, broken, from their herms. 
They fling their weapons down. Each rushes to his 
hero's grasp; their sinewy arms bend round each other : 
they turn from side to side, and strain and stretch their 
large-spreading limbs below. But when the pride of 
their strength arose, they shook the hill with their 
heels. Rocks tumble from their places on high ; the 
green-headed bushes are overturned. At length the 
» strength of Swaran fell; the king of the groves is 
{bound. Thus have I seen onCona ; but Cona I behold 
( no more ! thus have I seen two dark hills removed from 
\their place by the strength of their bursting stream. 
They turn from side to side in their fall ; their tall 
oaks meet one another on high. Then they tumble 



Fi:s^GAL. 341 

together with all their rocks and trees. The streams 
arc turned by their side. The red ruin is seen afar. 

" Sons of distant Morven," said Fingal, " guard the 
king of Lochlin. He is strong as his thousand waves. 
His hand is taught to war. His race is of the times 
of old. Gaul, thou first of my heroes ; Ossian, king of 
songs attend. He is the friend of Agandecca ; raise 
to joy his grief. But Oscar, Fillan, and Ryno, ye chil- 
dren of the race, pursue Lochlin over Lena, that no 
vessel may hereafter bound on the dark-rolling waves 
of Inistore." 

They flew sudden across the heath. He slowly 
moved, like a elou<i of thunder, when the sultry plain 
of summer is silent and dark. His sword is before 
him as a sunbeam ; terrible as the streaming meteor 
of night. He came towards a chief of Lochlin. He 
spoke to the son of the wave. — " Who is that so dark 
and sad, at the rock of the roaring stream ? He can- 
not bound over its course. How stately is the chi-ef ? 
His bossy shield is on his side ; his spear like the tree 
i)f the desert. Youth of the dark-red hair, art thou of 
the foes of Fingal ?" 

" I am a son of Lochlin," he cries ; " strong is my 
arm in war. My spouse is weeping at home. Orla 
shall never return !" " Or fights or yields the hero ?" 
said Fingal of the noble deeds ; " foes do not conquer 
in my presence : my friends are renov/ncd in the hall. 
Son of the v/ave, follow me : partake the feast of my 
shells : pursue the deer of my desert : be thou the 
friend of Fingal." " No," said the hero : " I assist 
the feeble. My strength is with the weak in arms. 
My sword has been always unmatched, O warrior ! let 
the king of Morven yield !" " I never yielded, Orla. 
Fingal never yielded to man. Draw thy sword, and 
choose thy foe. Many tire my heroes !" 

" Does then the king refuse the fight?" said Orla of 
29* 



342 THE POEJVIS OF OSSIAN. 

the dark-brown shield. " Fingal is a match for Oria : 
and he alone of all liis race ! But, king of Morvcn, if 
i shall fall, as one time the warrior must die ; raise my 
tomb in the midst : let it be the greatest on Lena. 
Send over the dark-blue wave, the sword of Orla to 
the spouse of liis love, that she may show it to her son, 
with tears to kindle his soul to war." " Son of the 
mournful tale," said Fingal, " why dost thou awaken 
my tears ! One day the warriors must die, and the 
children see their useless arms in the hall. But, Orla, 
thy tomb shall rise. Thy white-bosomed spouse shall 
weep over thy sword." 

They fought on the heath of Lena. Feeble was tlie 
arm of Orla. The sword of Fingal descended, and 
cleft his shield in twain. It fell and glittered on the 
ground, as tlie moon on the rufiied stream. " King 
of Morven," said the hero, " lift thy sword and pierce 
my breast. Wounded and faint from battle, my friends 
have left me here. The mournful tale shall come to 
my love on the banks of the streamy Lota, when she 
is alone in tiie wood, and the rustling blast in the 
leaves !" 

" No," said the king of Morven : " I will never 
wound thee, Orla. On the banks of Lota let her see 
thee, escaped from the hands of war. Let thy gray- 
haired father, who, perhaps, is blind with age, lot him 
hear the sound of thy voice, and brighten within his 
hall. With joy let the hero rise, and search for his 
son with his hands !" " But never will he find him, 
Fingal," said the youth of the streamy Lota : " on 
Lena's heath I must die: foreign bards shall talk of 
me. My broad belt covers my wound of death. I give 
it to the wind !" 

The dark blood poured from his side : he fell pale on 
the heath of Lena. Fingal bent over him as he died, 
and called his younger chiefs. ''Osc ar an d Fillan, 



FINGAT.c 343 

my son55, raise high the memory of Orla. Here let 
TTioclarlc-hairod hero rest, f:"ir from the spouse of his 
love. Here let him rest in his narrow house, far from 
the sound of Lota. The feeble will find his bow at 
home, but will not be able to bend it. His faithful dogs 
howl on his hills ; his boars which he used to pursue, 
rejoice. Fallen is the arm of battle ! the mighty 
among the valiant is low ! Exalt the voice, and blow 
th.e horn, ye sons of the king of Morven ! Let us go 
back to Swaran, to send the night away in song. Fil- 
lan, Oscar, and Ryno, fly over the heath of Lena. 
Where, Ryno, art thou, young son of fame ? Thou 
art not wont to be the last to answer thy father's voice !" 

'• Ryno," said Ullin, first of bards, " is v/ith the 
awful forms of his fathers. With Trathal, king of 
shields ; with Trenmor of mighty deeds. The youth 
is low, the youth is pale, he lies on Lena's heath !" 
" Fell the swiftest of the race," said the king, " the 
first to bend the bov/ ? Thou scarce hast been known 
to me ! Why did young Ryno fall ? But sleep thou 
softly on Lena; Fingal shall soon behold thee. Soon 
shall my voice be heard no more, and my footsteps 
cekse to be seen. The bards will tell of Fihgal's name. 
Tfie^^fones will talk of me. But, Ryno, thou art low, 
indeed : thou hast not received thy fame. Ullin, strike 
the harp for Ryno ; tell what the chief would have 
been. Farewell, thou first in every field. No more 
shall I direct thy dart. Thou that hast been so fair ! 
I behold thee not. Farewell." Tlie tear is on the 
cheek of the king, for terrible was his son in war. His 
son that was like a beam of fire by night on a hill, whea 
the forests sink down in its course, and the traveller 
trembles at the sound. But the winds drive it beyond 
the steep. It sinks from sight, and darkness prevails. 

" Whose fame is in that dark-green tomb?" began 
the king of generous shells ; " four stones with their 



844 THE POEMS OF OSSTAN, 

heads of moss stand there . They mark the narrow housf^ 
of death. Near it let liyno rest. A. neighbor to the 
brave let him lie. Some chief of fame is here, to fly 
with my son on clouds. 0_ Ullin ! raise the songs of 
old. Awake their memory in tlieir fombT" If in the 
"field they never fled, my son shall rest by their side. 
He shall rest, far distant from Morven, on Lena's re- 
sounding plains." 

" Here," said the bard of song, " here rest the first 
of heroes. Silent is Lamderg in this place, dumb is 
Ullin, king of swords. And who, soft smiling from 
her cloud, shows me her face of love ? Why, daughter, 
why so pale art thou, first of the maids of Cromla ? 
Dost thou sleep with the foes in battle, white-bosomed 
daughter of Tuathal ? Thou hast been the love of 
thousands, but Lamderg was thy love. He came to 
Tura's mossy towers, and striking his dark buckler, 
spoke: 'Where is Gelchossa, my love, the daughter 
of the noble Tuathal ? I left her m the hall of Tura, 
when I fought with the great Ulfada. Return soon, 
O Lamderg ! she said, for here I sit in grief. Her 
wliite breast rose with sighs. Her cheek was wet with 
tears. But I see her not coming to meet me to sooth 
my soul after war. Silent is the hall of my joy. I 
near not the voice of the bard. Bran does not shake 
nis chains at the gate, glad at the coming of Lamderg. 
Where is Gelchossa, my love, the mild daughter of 
generous Tuathal V 

" ' Lamderg,' says Ferchios, son of Aidon, ' Gel- 
chossa moves stately on Cromla. She and the maids 
of the bow pursue the flying deer !' ' Ferchios !' re- 
plied the chief of Cromla, ' no noise meets the ear of 
Lamderg ! No sound is in the woods of Lena. Ng 
deer fly in my sight. No panting dog pursues. I see 
not Gelchossa, my love, fair as the full moon setting on 
the hills. Go, Ferchios, go to Allad, the grav-haired 



^^^-dA^A 



FINGAL, 345 

son of the rock. His dwelling is in the circle of stones. 
He may know of the bright Gelchossa !' 

" The son of Aidon went. He spoke to the ear of 
age. ' AUad, dweller of rocks, thou that tremblest 
alone, what saw thine eyes of age V 'I saw,' answered 
Allad the old, 'Ulhn the sonof Cairbar. He came, in 
darkness, from Cromla. He hummed a surly song, 
like a blast in a leafless wood. He entered the hall of 
Tura. ^' Lamderg,"' he said, '• most dreadful of men, 
fight or yield to UUin." " Lamderg," replied Gel- 
chossa, '' the son of battle is not here. He fights 
fJIfada, mighty chief. He is not here, thou first of 
men ! But Lamderg never yields. He will fight the 
son of Cairbar !" " Lovely thou," said terrible Ullin, 
'' daughter of the generous Tuathal. I carry thee to 
Cairl)ar's halls. The valiant shall have Gelchossa. 
Three days I remain on Cromla, to wait that son of 
battle, Lamderg. On the fourth Gelchossa is mine, 
if the mighty Lamderg flies."' 

" ' AUad,' said the chief of Cromla, 'peace to thy 
dreams in the cave !^ Ferchios, sound the horn of 
Lamderg, that Ullin may hear in his halls.' Lamderg, 
like a roaring storm ascended the hill from Tura. He 
hummed a surly song as he went, like the noise of a 
falling stream. He darkly stood upon the hill, like a 
cloud varying its form to the wind. He rolled a stone, 
the sign of war. Ullin heard in Cairbar's hall. The 
hero heard, with joy, his foe. He took his father's 
spear. A smile brightens his dark-brown cheek, as 
he places his sword by his side. The dagger glittered 
in his hand, he whistled as he went. 

•' Gelchossa saw the silent chief, as a wreath of mist 
ascending the hill. She struck her white and heaving 
breast ; and silent, tearful, feared for Lamderg. ' Cair- 
bar, hoary chief of shells,' said the maid of the tender 
hand, * I must bend the bow on Cromla. I see the 



346 iir. POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

dark-brown hinds.' She liasted up the hill. In vain ! 
the gloomy heroes fought. Why should I tell to Sel- 
ma's king how wrathful heroes fight ? Fierce Ullin 
fell. Young Lamdcrg came, all pale, to the daughter 
of generous Tuathal ! ' What blood, my love,' she 
trembling said, ' what blood runs down my warrior's 
side V ' It is Ullin's blood,' the chief replied, ' thou 
fairer than the snow ! Gelchossa, let me rest here a 
little while.' The mighty Lamderg died ! ' And 
sleepest thou so soon on earth, O chief of shady Tura V 
Three days she mourned beside her love. The hunt- 
ers found her cold. They raised this tomb above the 
three. Thy son, O king of Morvcn, may rest here with 
heroes !" 

" And here my son shall rest," said Fingal. " The 
voice of their fame is in mine ears. Fillan and Fer- 
gus, bring hither Orla, the pale youth of the stream of 
Lota ! not unequalled shall Ryno lie in earth, when 
Orla is by his side. Weep, ye daughters of Morven ! 
ye maids of the streamy Lota, weep ! Like a tree they 
grew on the hills. They have fallen like the oak of 
the desert, when it lies across a stream, and withers in 
the wind. Oscar, chief of every youth, thou seest how 
they have fallen. Be thou like thom on earth renown- 
ed. Like them the song of bards. Terrible were 
their forms in battle ; but calm was Ryno in the days 
of peace. He was like the bow of the shower seen 
far distant on the stream, when the sun is setting on 
Mora, when silence dwells on the hill of deer. Rest, 
youngest of my sons ! rest, O Ryno ! on Lena. We 
too shall be no more. Warriors one day must fall !" 

Such was thy grief, thou king of swords, when Ryno 
lay on earth. What must the grief of Ossian be, for 
thou thyself art gone ! I hear not thy distant voice on 
Cona. My eyes perceive thee not. Often forlorn and 
dark I sit at thy tomb, and feel it with my hands. 



FINGAL. 347 

When I think I hear thy voice, it is but the passing 
blast. FingaJ has long since fallen asleep, the ruler 
of the war ! 

Then Gaul and Ossian sat with S\varan, on the soft 
green banks of Lubar. I touched the harp to please 
the king ; but gloomy was his brow. He rolled his 
red eyes towards Lena. The hero mourned his host. 
I raised mine eyes to Cromla's brow. I saw the son 
of generous Semo. Sad and slow he retired from his 
hill, tov\-ards the lonely cave of Tura. He saw Fin- 
gal victorious, and mixed Jiis joy with grief. The sun 
is bright on his armor. Connal slowly strode behind. 
They sunk behind the hill, like two pillars of the fire 
of night, when winds pursue them over the mountain, 
and the flaming death resounds ! Beside a stream of 
roaring foam his cave is in a rock. One tree bends 
above it. The rushing winds echo against its sides. 
Here rests the chief of Erin, the son of generous Se- 
mo. His thoughts are on the b-ittles he lost. The 
tear is on his cheek. He mourned the departure of 
his fam.e, that fled like the mist of Cona. O Bragela ! 
thou art too far remote to cheer the soul of the hero. 
But let him see thy bright form in his mind, that his 
thoughts may return to the lonely sunbeam of-^his 
love ! 

Who comes with the locks of age l It is the son of 
songs. " Hail, Carril of other times ! Thy voice is 
like the harp in the halls of Tura. Thy words are 
pleasant as the shower which falls on the sumiy field. 
Carril of the times of old, v/hy comest thou from the 
son of the generous Semo 1" 

" Ossian, king of swords," replied tlie bard, " thou 
best canst raise the song. Long hast thou been known 
to Carril, thou ruler of war ! Often have I touched the 
harp to lOvely Everallin. Thou too hast often joined 
my voice in Branno's hall of gen-erous shells. And 



348 TIIK POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

often, amidst our voices, was heard the mildest Everal- 
Hn. One day she sung of Cormac's tall, the youth 
who died for her love. I saw the tears on her cheek, 
and on thine, thou chief of men. Her soul was touched 
for the unhappy, though she loved him not. How fair 
among a thousand maids was the daughter of generous 
Branno !"' 

" Bring not, CarriV I replied, " bring not her 
memory to my mind. My soul must melt at the le- 
membrance. My eyes must have their tears. Pale 
in the earth is she, the softly-blushing fair of my love ! 
But sit thou on the heath, O bard ! and let us hear thy 
voice. It is pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs 
on the hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreams of 
joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill !" 



BOOK VI. 

ARGUIVIENT. 



Night comes on. Fingal gives a least to his army, at which Svva- 
ran is present. The king commands Ullin his bard to give " the 
song of peace ;" a custom always observed at the end of a war. 
Ulhn relates the actions of Trenmor, great-grandfather to Fingal, 
in Scandinavia, and his marriage with Inibaca, the daughter (>f 
a king of LochUn, who was ancestor to iSwaran ; which consid- 
eration, together with his being brother to Agandecca, with 
whom Fingal was in love in his youth, induced the king to re- 
lease him, and permit him to return with the remains of his army 
into Lochhn, upon his promise of never returning to Ireland in a 
hostile manner. The night is spent in settling Swaran's depart- 
ure, in songs of bards, and in a conversation in which the story ot 
Grunial is introduced by Fingal. Morning comes. Swaran de- 
parts. Fingal goes on a hunting party, and tinding Cuthullin in 
the cave of Tura, comforts him, and sets sail the next day for 
Scotland, which concludes the poem. 

The clouds of night came rolling down. Darkness 
rests on the steeps of Cromla. The stars of the north 



FINGAL, 349 

arise over the rolling of Erin's waves ; they tliow their 
heads of fire through the flying mist of heaven. A 
distant wind roars in the wood. Silent and dark u the 
plain of death ! Still on the dusky Lena arose in my 
ears the voice^^f Carril. He sung of the friends of 
our youth ; the days of former years ; when we met 
on the banks of Lego ; when we sent round the joy of 
the shell. Cromla answered to his voice. The ghosts 
of those he simgcame in their rustling winds. They 
were seen to bend with joy, towards the sound of their 
praise ! 

Be thy soul blest, O Carril ! in the midst of thy ed- 
dying winds. O that thou wouldst come to my hall, 
when I am alone by night ! And thou dost come, my 
friend. I hear often thy light hand on my harp, when 
it hangs on the distant wall, and the feeble sound 
touches my ear. Why dost thou not speak to me in 
my grief: and tell when I shall behold my friends '^ 
But thou passest aw^ay in thy murmuring blast ; tlie 
wind whistles through the gray hair of Ossian ! 

Now, on the side of Mora, tlie heroes gathered to 
the feast. A thousand aged oaks are burning to the 
v/ind. The strength of the shell goes round. The 
souls of warriors brighten with joy. But the king of 
Lochlin is silent. Sorrow reddens in the eyes of his 
pride. He often turned towards Lena. He remem- 
bered that he fell. Fingal leaned on the shield of hisj 
fathers. His gray locks slov\^ly waved on the wind, 
and glittered to the beam of night. He saw the grief 
of Swaran, and spoke to the first of bards. 

" Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace. O sooth 
my soul from war ! Let mine ear forget, in the sound, 
the dismal noise of arms. Let a hundred harps be 
near to gladden the king of Lochlin. He must depart 
from us with joy. None ever went sad from Fingal. 
Oscar ! the lightning of my sword is against the strong 
30 



350 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

in fight. Ponroful it lies by my sidr when warriors 
yield in war." 

" Trenmor," said the mouth of songs, " lived in the 
days of other years. He bounded over the waves of 
the north ; companion of the storm ! The high rocks 
of the land of Lochlin, its groves of murmuring sounds, 
appeared to the hero through mist ; he bound his white- 
bosomed sails. Trenmor pursued the boar that roared 
through the woods of Gormal. Many had fled from 
its presence ; but it rolled in death on the spear of 
Trenmor. Three chiefs, who beheld the deed, told of 
the mighty stranger. They told that he stood, like a 
pillar of fire, in the bright arms of his valor. The 
king of Lochlin prepared the feast. He called the 
blooming Trenmor. Three days he feasted at Gor- 
raal's windy towers, and received his choice in the com- 
bat. The land of Lochlin had no hero that yielded 
not to Trenmor. The shell of joy went round v/ith 
songs in praise of the king of Morven. He that came 
over the waves, the first of mighty men. 

" Now when the fourth gray morn arose, the hero 
launched his ship. He walked along the silent shore, 
and called for the rushing wind ; for loud and distant 
he heard the blast murmuring behind the groves. 
Covered over with arms of steel, a son of the woody 
Gormal appeared. Red was his cheek, and fair his 
hair. His skin was like the snow of Morven. Mild 
rolled his blue and smiling eye, when he spoke to the 
king of swords. 

" ' Stay, Trenmor, stay, thou first of men ; thou 
hast not conquered Lonval's son. My sword has 
often met the brave. The wise shun the strength of 
my bow.' ' Thou fair-haired youth,' Trenmor replied, 
' 1 will not fight with Lonval's son. Thine arm is 
feeble, sunbeam of youth ! Retire to Gormal's dark- 
brown hinds.' < But I will retire,' replied the youth, 



FINOAL. 351 

' with the sword of Trenmor ; and exult in the sound 
of my fame. The virgins shall gather with smiles 
around him who conquered mighty Trenmor. They 
shall sigh with the sighs of love, and admire the length 
of thy spear : when I shall carry it among thousands ; 
when I lift the glittering point to the sun.' 

" ' Thou shalt never carry my spear,' said the angry 
king of Morven. ^ Thy mother shall find th<ee pale on 
the shore ; and looking over the dark-blue deep, see 
the sails of him that slew her son !' 'I will not lift the 
spear,' replied the youth, ' my arm is not strong with 
years. But with the feathered dart I have learned to 
pierce a distant foe. Throw down that" heavy mail of 
steel. Trenmor is covered from death. I first will 
lay my mail on earth. Throw now thy dart, thou king 
of Morven !' He saw the heaving of her breast. It 
was the sister of the king. She had seen him in the 
hall : and loved his face of youth. The spear dropt 
from the hand of Trenmor : he bent his red cheek to 
the ground. She was to him a beam of light that meets 
the sons of the cave ; when they revisit the fields of 
the sun, and bend their aching eyes ! 

" ' Chief of the windy Morven,' began the maid of 
the arms of snow, ' let me rest in thy bounding ship, 
far from the love of Corlo. For he, like the thunder 
of the desert, is terrible to Inibaca. He loves me in 
the gloom of pride. He shakes ten thousand spears !' 
— ' Rest thou in peace,', said the mighty Trenmor, 
' rest behind the shield of my fathers. I will not fly 
from the chief, though he shakes ten thousand spears.' 
Three days he waited on the shore. He sent his horn 
abroad. He called Corlo to battle, from all his echo- 
ing hills. But Corlo came not to battle. The king of 
Lochlin descends from his hall. He feasted on the 
roaring shore. He gave the maid to Trenmor !" 

" King of Lochlin," said Fingal, " thy blood flows 



352 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

in the veins of tiiy foe. Our fathers met in battle, be- 
cause they loved the strife of spears. But often did 
they feast in the hall . and send round the joy of the 
shell. Let thy face brighten with gladness, and thine 
ear delight in the harp. Dreadful as the storm of thine 
ocean, thou hast poured thy valor forth ; thy voice has 
been like the voice of thousands when they engage in 
war. Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white sails to the 
wind, thou brother of Agandecca ! Bright as the beam 
of noon, she comes on my mournful soul. I have seen 
thy tears for the fair one. I spared thee in the halls 
of Starno ; when my s\vord was red with slaughter : 
when my eye was full of tears for the maid. Or dost 
thou choose the fight ? The combat which thy fathers 
gave to Trenmor is thine ! that thou inayest depart re- 
nowned, like the sun setting in the west !'" 

" King of the race of Morven !" said the chief of 
resounding Lochlin, " never will Swaran -fight with 
thee, first of a thousand heroes ! I have seen thee in 
the halls of Starno ; few were thy years beyond my 
own. When shall I, I said to my soul, lift the spear 
like the noble Fingal ? We have fought heretofore, O 
warrior, on the side of the shaggy Maimer ; after my 
waves had carried me to thy halls, and the feast of a 
thousand shells was spread. Let the bards send his 
name who overcame to future years, for noble was the 
strife of Maimer ! But many of the ships of Lochlin 
have lost their youths on Lena. Take these, thou 
king of Morven, and be the friend of Swaran ! When 
thy sons shall come to Gormal, the feast of shells shall 
be spread, and the combat ofiered on the vale." 

" Nor ship," replied the king, " shall Fingal take, 
nor land of many hills. The desert is enough to me, 
with all its deer and woods. Rise on thy waves again, 
thou noble friend of Agandecca ! Spread thy white 
sails to the beam of the morning ; return to the echo- 



FINGAL. 353 

ing hills of Gormal.'" — " Blest be thy soul, thou king 
of shells," said Swaran of the dark-brown shield. " In 
peace thou art the gale of spring ; in war the moun- 
taij\ storm. Take now my hand in friendship, king of 
echoing Sclma ! Let thy bards mourn those who fell. 
Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to earth. Raise 
high the mossy stones of their fame : that the children 
of the north hereafter may behold the place where their 
fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he leans on 
a mossy tomb. Here Fingal and Swaran fought, the 
heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say, 
and our fame shall last for ever." 

" Swaran," said the king of hills, " to day our fame 
is greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No 
sound will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will 
be lost in the heath. The hunter shall not know the 
place of our rest. Our names may be heard in song. 
What avails it, when our strength hath ceased 7 O Os- 
sian, Carril, and UUin ! you know of heroes that are no 
more. Give us the song of other years. Let the night 
pass away on the sound, and morning return with joy." 

We gave the song to the kings; A hundred harps 
mixed their sound with our voice. The face of Swa- 
ran brightened, like the full moon of heaven ; when 
the clouds vanish away, and leave her calm and broad 
in the midst of the sky. 

" Where, Carril," said the great Fingal, " Carril of 
other times ! where is the son of Semo, the king of 
the isle of mist ? Has he retired like the meteor of 
death, to the dreary cave of Tura ?" — "Cuthullin," 
said Carril of other times, " lies in the dreary cave of 
Tura. His hand is on the sword of his strength. His 
thoughts on the battles he lost. Mournful is the king 
of spears : till now unconquered in war. He sends 
his sword, to rest on the side of Fingal : for, like the 
storm of the desert, thou hast scattered all his foes. 
30* 



354 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Take, Fingal ! tlie sword of the hero. His fame is 

departed like mist, wl\cn it flies, before the rustling 
wind, along the brightening vale." 

" No," replied the king, " Fingal shall n-ever take 
his sword. His arm is mighty in war : his fame shall 
never fail. Many have been overcome in battle; 
whose renown arose from their fall. O Swaran, king 
of resounding woods, give all thy grief away. The 
vanquished, if brave, are renowned. They are like 
the sun in a cloud, when he hides his face in the south, 
but looks again on the hills of grass." 

" Grumal was a chief of Cona. He sought the battle 
on every coast. His soul rejoiced in blood : his ear 
in the din of arms. He poured his warriors on Craca ; 
Craca's king met him from his grove ; for then, within 
the circle of Brumo, he spoke to the stone of power. 
Fierce was the battle of the heroes, for the maid of 
the breast of snow. The fame of the daughter of 
Craca had reached Grumal at the streams of Cona; he 
vowed to have the white-bosomed maid, or die on 
echoing Craca. Three days they strove together, and 
Grumal on the fourth was bound. Far from his frieixls 
they placed him in the horrid circle of Brumo; where 
often, they said, the ghosts of the dead howled round 
the stone of their fear. But he afterward shone, like 
a pillar of the light of heaven. They fell by his mighty 
hand. Grumal had all his fame ! 

" Raise, ye bards of other times," continued the 
great Fingal, " raise high the praise of heroes : that 
my soul may settle on their fame ; that the mind of 
Swaran may cease to be sad." They .'ay in the heath 
of Mora. The dark winds rustled over the chiefs. A 
hundred voices, at once, arose ; a hundred harps were 
strung. They sung of other times ; the mighty chiefs 
of former years! When now shall I hear the bard? 
When rejoice at the fame of my fathers ? The harp is 



FINGAL. 355 

not strung on Morven. The voico of music ascends 
not on Conr\. Dead, with thv'3 mighty, is the bard. 
Fame is in the desert no more." 

Morning trembles with the beam of the east ; it 
ghmmers on Cromla's side. Over Lena is heard the 
horn of Swaraii. Tiie sons of the ocean gather around. 
Silent and sad they rise on the wave. The blast of 
Erin is behind their sails. White, as the mist of Mor- 
ven, they float along the sea. " Call," said Fingal, 
" call my dogs, the long-bounding sons of the chase. 
Call white-breasted Bran, and the surly strength of 
Luath ! Fillan, and Ryno ; — but he is not here ! My 
son rests on the bed of death. Fillan and Fergus ! 
blow the horn, that the joy of the chase may arise ; 
that the deer of Cromla may hear, and start at the lake 
of roes." 

The shrill sound spreads along the wood. The sons 
of heathy Cromla arise. A thousand dogs fly off at 
once, gray-bounding through the heath. A deer fell 
by every dog ; three by the white-breasted Bran. He 
brought them, in their flight, to Fingal, that the joy of 
the king might be great ! One deer fell at the tomb of 
Ryno. The grief of Fingal returned. He saw how 
j)eaceful lay the stone of him, who was the first at the 
chase ! " No more shalt thou rise, O my son ! to par- 
take of the feast of Cromla. Soon will thy tomb be 
hid, and the grass grow rank on thy grave. The sons 
of the feeble shall pass along. They shall not know 
where the mighty lie. 

" Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength ! Gaul, 
chief of the blue steel of war ! Let us ascend the hill 
to the cave of Tura. Let us find the chief of the battles 
of Erin. Are these the walls of Tura ? gray and lonely 
they rise on the heath. The chief of shells is sad, and 
the halls are silent and lonely. Come, let us find Cu- 
thullin, and give him all our joy. But is that Cu- 



356 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

thullin, O Fillan, or a pillar of smoke on the heath ? 
The wind of Cromla is on my eyes. I distinguish not 
my friend." 

" Fingal !" replied the youth, " it is the son of Semo !" 
Gloomy and sad is the hero ! his hand is on his sword. 
Hail to the son of battle, breaker of the shields !" 
" Hail to thee," replied CuthuUin, " hail to all the sons 
of Morven ! Delightful is thy presence, O Fingal ! it is 
the sun on Cromla : when the hunter mourns his ab- 
sence for a season, and sees him between the clouds. 
Thy sons are like stars that attend thy course. They 
give light in the night. It is not thus thou hast seen 
me, O Fingal ! returning from the wars of thy land : 
when the kings of the world had fled, and joy returned 
to the hills of hinds !" 

" Many are thy words, Cuthullin," said Connan of 
small renown. " Thy words are many, son of Sonio, 
but where are thy deeds in arms ? Why did we com i, 
over ocean, to aid thy feeble sword ? Thou fliestto ihy 
cave of grief, and Connan fights thy battles. Resign 
to me these arms of light. Yield them, thou chief of 
Erin." — " No hero," replied the chief, " ever sought 
the arms of Cuthullin ! and had a thousand heroes 
sought them, it were in vain, thou gloomy youth ! I 
fled not to the cave of grief, till Erin failed at her 
streams." 

"Youth of the feeble arm," said Fingal, "Connan, 
cease thy words ! Cuthullin is renowned in battle : ter- 
rible over the world. Often have I heard thy fame, 
thou storm}- chief of Inis-fail. Spread now thy white 
sails for the isle of mist. See Bragcla leaning on her 
rock. Her tender eye is in tears, the winds lift her 
long hair from her heaving breast. She listens to the 
breeze of night, to hear the voice of thy rowers ; to 
hear the song of the sea ; the sound of thy distant 
harps." 



FINGAL. 357 

^' Lang shall she listen in vain. CuthulJin shall never 
return. How can I behold Bragela, to raise the sigh 
of her breast? Fingal, I was always victorious, in 
battles of other spears." — " And hereafter thou shalt 
be victorious," said Fingal of generous shells. " The 
fame of Cuthullin shall grow, like the branchy tree of 
Croma. Many battles await thee, O chief! Many 
shall be the wounds of thy hand ! Bring hither, Oscar, 
the deer ! Prepare the feast of shells. Let our souls 
rejoice after danger, and our friends delight in our 
presence." 

We sat. We feasted. Wc sung. The soul of 
Cuthullin rose. The strength of his arm returned. 
Gladness brightened along his face. Ullin gave the 
song ; Carril raised the voice, I joined the bards, and 
sung of battles of the spear. Battles ! where I often 
fought. Now I fight no more ! The fame of my 
former deeds is ceased. 1 sit forlorn at the tombs of 
my friends ! 

Thus the night passed away in song. We brought 
back the morning with joy. Fingal arose on the heath, 
and shook his glittering spear. He moved first to- 
wards the plains of Lena. We followed in all our 
arms 

" Spread the sail," said the king, *' seize the winds 
as they pour from Lena." We rose on the wave with 
songs. We rushed, with joy, through the foam of the 
deep. 



LATHMON. 

ARGUMENT. 

Laihmon, a British prince, taking advantage of Fingal's absenc«» 
on an expedition to Ireland, made a descent on Morven, and ad- 
vanced within sight of Sehna, the royal residence. Fingal ar- 
rived in the mean time, and Lathmon retreated to a hill, where 
his arm}' was surprised by night, and himself taken prisoner by 
Ossian and Gaul the son of Morni. The poem opens wiih the 
lir.st appearance of Fingal on the coast of Mcr\'en, and ends, it 
may be supposed, about noon the next day. 

Selma. thy halls arc silent. There is no sound in 
the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles along on 
the coast. The silent beam of the sun is on the field. 
The daughters of Morven come forth, like the bow of 
the shower ; they look towards green Erin for the 
white sails of the king. Ho had promised to return, 
but the winds of the north arose ! 

Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream of 
darkness 1 It is the host of Lathmon. He has heard 
of the absence of Fingal. He trusts in the winds of 
the north. His soul brightens with joy. Why dost 
thou come, O Lathmon ? The mighty are not in Sel- 
ma. Why comest thou with thy forward spear ? Will 
the daughters of JMorven fight ? But stop, O mighty 
stream, in thy course ! Does not Lathmon behold these 
sails ? Why dost thou vanish, Lathmon, like the mist 
of the lake ? But the squally storm is behind thee ; 
Fingal pursues thy steps ! 

The king of Morven had started from sleep, as we 
rolled on the dark-blue wave. He stretched his hand 
to his spear, his heroes rose around. We knew that 
he had seen his fathers, for they often descended to his 
dreams, when the sword of the foe rose over the land ; 



LATHMON. 359 

and the battle darkened before us. *' Whither hast 
thou fled, O wind V said the king of Morven. " Dost 
thou rustle in the chambers of the south ? pursuest thou 
the shower in other lands 1 Why dost thou not come 
to my sails ? to the blue face of my seas ? The foe is 
in the land of Morven, and the king is absent far. But 
let each bind on his mail, and each assume his shield. 
Stretch every spear over the wave ; let every sword 
be unsheathed. Lathmon is before us with his host ; 
he that fled from Fingal on the plains of Lena. But 
he returns like a collected stream, and his roar is be 
tween our hills." 

Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into 
Carmen's bay. Ossian ascended the hill ! he thrice 
struck his bossy shield. The rock of Morven replied : 
the bounding roes came forth. The foe was troubled 
in my presence : he collected his darkened host. I 
stood like a cloud on the hill, rejoicing in the arms of 
my youth. 

Morni sat beneath a tree, on the roaring waters of 
Sfe'umon : his locks of age are gray : he leans forward 
on his staff; young Gaul is near the hero, hearing the 
battles of his father. Often did he rise in the fire of 
liis soul, at the mighty deeds of Morni. The aged 
heard the sound of Ossian's shield ; he knew the sign 
of war. He started at once from his place. His gray 
hair parted on his back. He remembered the deeds 
of other years. 

" My son," he said, to fair-haired Gaul, " I hear the 
sound of war. The king of Morven is returned ; his 
signals are spread on the wind. Go to the halls of 
Strumon ; bring his arms to Morni. Bring the shield 
of my father's latter years, for my arm begins to fail. 
Take thou thy armor, O Gaul ! and rush to the first 
of thy battles. Let thine arm reach to the renown of 
thy fathers. Be thy course in the field like the eagle's 



3{}0 THE FOEMS OF Ob^lAN. 

wing. Why shouldst thou fear death, my son ? the 
valiant fall with fame ; their shields turn the dark 
stream of danger away ; renown dwells on tl>eir aged 
hairs. Dost thou not see, O Gaul ! how the steps of 
my age are honored ? Morni moves forth, and the 
young men meet him, with silent joy, on his course. 
But I never fled from danger, my son ! my sword 
lightened through the darkness of war. The stranger 
melted before me ; the mighty were blasted in my 
presence." 

Gaul brought the arms to Morni : the aged warrior 
is covered with steel. He took the spear in his hand, 
which was stained with the blood of the valiant. He 
came towards Fingal ; his son attended his steps. The 
son of Comhal arose before him with joy, when he 
came in his locks of age, 

" Chief of the roaring Strumon V said the rising 
soul of Fingal ; " do I behold thee in arms, after thy 
strength has failed ? Often has Morni shone in fight, 
like the beam of the ascending sun ; when he disperses 
the storms of the hill, and brings peace to the glitter- 
ing fields. But why didst thou not rest in thine age ? 
Thy renown is in the song. The people behold thee, 
and bless the departure of mighty Morni. Why didst 
thou not rest in thine age ? The foe will vanish before 
Fingal!" 

" Son of Comhal," replied the chief, " the strength 
of Morni's arm has failed. I attempt to draw the sword 
of my youth, but it remains in its place. I throw the 
spear, but it falls short of the mark. I feel the weight 
of my shield. We decay like the grass of the hill ; 
our strength returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal ! 
his soul has delighted in Morni's deeds ; but his sword 
has not been lifted against a foe, neither has his fame 
begun. I come with him to the war ; to direct his 
arm in fight. His renown will be a light to my soul. 



LATHMON. 361 

in the dark hour of my departure. O that the name 
of Morni were forgot among the people ! that the he- 
roes would only say, * Behold the father of Gaul !' " 

''KingofStrumon," Fingal replied, "Gaul shall lift 
the sword in fight. But he shall lift it before Fingal ; 
my arm shall defend his youth. But rest thou in the 
halls of Selma, and hear of our renown. Bid the harp 
to be strung, and the voice of the bard to arise, that 
those who fall may rejoice in their fame, and the soul 
of Morni brighten with joy. Ossian, thou hast fought 
in battles : the blood of strangers is on thy spear : thy 
course be with Gaul in the strife ; but depart not from 
the side of Fingal, lest the foe should find you alone, 
and your fame fail in my presence." 

" * I saw Gaul in his arms ; my soul was mixed with 
his. The fire of the battle was in his eyes ! he looked 
to the foe with joy. We spoke the words of friendship 
in secret ; the lightning of our swords poured together ; 
for we drew them behind the wood, and tried the 
strength of our arms on the empty air !" 

Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at the 
beam of the oak. Morni sat by his side with all his 
gray- waving locks. Their words were of other times, 
of the mighty deeds of their fathers. Three bards, at 
times, touched the harp : Ullin was near with his song. 
He sung of the mighty Comhal ; but darkness gathered 
on Morni's brow. He rolled his red eye on Ullin : at 
once ceased the song of the bard. Fingal observed 
the aged hero, and he mildly spoke : " Chief of Stru- 
mon, why that darkness ? Let the days of other years 
be forgot. Our fathers contended in war; but we 
meet together at the feast. Our swords are turned on 
the foe of our land : he melts before us on the field. 



Ossian speaks. 
31 



362 THE POEMS OF 05SIAN. 

Let the days of o\ir fathers be forgot, liero of mossy 
Strumon !" 

" King of Morven/' replied tlie chief, " I remember 
thy father with joy. He was terrible in battle, tlie rage 
of the chief was deadly. My eyes were full of tears 
when the king of heroes fell. The valiant fall, O Fin- 
gal ! the feeble remain on the hills! How many heroes 
have passed away in the days of Morni ! Yet I did not 
shun the battle ; neither did I fly from the strife of the 
valiant. Now let the friends of Fingal rest, for the 
night is around, that they may rise with strength to 
battle against car-borne Lathmon, 1 hear the sound 
of his host, like thunder moving on the hills. Ossian ! 
and fair-haired Gaul ! ye are young and swift in the 
race. Observe the foes of Fingal from that woody 
hill. But approach them not: your fathers are near 
to shield you. Let not your fame fall at once. The 
valor of youth may fail !" 

We heard the words of the chief with joy. We 
moved in the clang of our arms. Our steps are on 
the woody hill. Heaven burns with all its stars. The 
meteors of death fly over the field. The distant noise 
of the foe reached our cars. It was then Gaul spoke, 
in his valor: his hand half unsheathed his sword. 

" Son of Fingal !" he said, " why burns the soul of 
Gaul 1 my heart beats high. My steps are disordered ; 
my hand trembles on my sword. When I look to- 
wards the foe, my soul lightens before me. I see tijeir 
sleeping host. Tremble thus the souls of the valiant 
in battles of the spear ? How would the soul of Morni 
rise if we should rush on the foe ? Our renown would 
grow in song : our steps would be stately in the eyes 
of the brave." 

" Son of Morni," I replied, "my soul delights in war. 
I delight to shine in battle alone, to give my name to 
the bards But what if the foe should prevail ? can I 



LATHMON. 363 

behold the eyes of the king ? They are terrible in his 
displeasure, and like the flames of death. But I will 
not behold them in his wrath ! Ossian shall prevail or 
fall. But shall the fame of the vanquished rise ? They 
pass like a shade away. But the fame of Ossian shaJl 
rise ! His deeds shall be like his father's. Let us 
rush in our arms ; son of Morni, let us rush to fight. 
Gaul, if thou shouldst return, go to Selma's lofty hall. 
Tell to Everallin tlmt I fell with fame ; carry this 
sword to Branno's daughter. Let her give it to Oscar, 
when the years of his youth shall arise." 

" Son of Fingal," Gaul replied with a sigh, " shall 
[ return after Ossian is low ? What would my father 
say ? what Fingal, the king of men ? The feeble 
would turn their eyes and say, ' Behold Gaul, who left 
his friend in his blood !' Ye shall not behold me, ye 
feeble, but in the midst of my renown ! Ossian, I have 
heard from my father the mighty deeds of heroes ; 
their mighty deeds when alone ! for the soul increases 
in danger !" 

" Son of Morni," I replied, and strode before him on 
the heath, " our fathers shall praise our valor when 
they mourn our fall. A beam of gladness shall rise 
on their souls, when their eyes are full of tears. They 
will say, ' Our sons have not fallen unknown : they 
spread death around them.' But why should we think 
of the narrow house ? The sword defends the brave. 
But death pursues the flight of the feeble ; their re- 
nown is never heard." 

We rushed forward through night ; we came to the 
roar of a stream, which bent its blue course round the 
foe, through trees that echoed to its sound. We came 
to the bank of the stream, and saw the sleeping host. 
Their fires were decayed on the plain : the lonely 
steps of their scouts were distant far. I stretched nrjy 
spear before me, to support my steps over the stream. 



364 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

But Gaul took my hand, and spoke the words of the 
brave. " Shall the son of Fingal rush on the sleeping 
foe ? Shall he come like a blast by night, when it 
overturns the young trees in secret ? Fingal did not 
receive his fame, nor dwells renown on the gray hairs 
of Morni, for actions like these. Strike, Ossian, strike 
the shield, and let their thousands rise ! Let them meet 
Gaul in his first battle, that he may try the strength 
of his arm." 

My soul rejoiced over the warrior ; my bursting 
tears came down. "And the foe shall meet thee, 
Gaul," I said : "the fame of Morni's son shall arise. 
But rush not too far, my hero : let the gleam of thy 
steel be near to Ossian. Let our hands join in slaugh- 
ter. Gaul ! dost thou not behold that rock ? Its gray 
side dimly gleams to the stars. Should the foe prevail, 
let our back be towards the rock. Then shall they fear 
to approach our spears ; for death is in our hands !" 

I struck thrice my echoing shield. The startling 
foe arose. We rushed on in the sound of our arms. 
Their crowded steps fly over the heath. They thought 
that the mighty Fingal was come. The strength of 
their arms withered away. The sound of their flight 
was like that of flame, when it rushes through the 
blasted groves. It was then the spear of Gaul flew in 
its strength ; it was then his sword arose. Cremor 
fell ; and mighty Leth ! Dunthormo struggled in his 
blood. The steel rushed through Crotho's side, as bent 
he rose on his spear ; the black stream poured from 
the wound, and hissed on the half-extinguished oak. 
Cathmin saw the steps of the hero behind him : he 
ascended a blasted tree ; but the spear pierced him 
from behind. Shrieking, panting, he fell. Moss and 
withered branches pursue his fall, and strew the blue 
arms of Gaul. 

Such were thy deeds, son of Morni, iu the first of 



LATHMON. 365 

thy battles. Nor slept the sword by thy side, thou 
last of Fingal's race ! Ossian rushed forward in his 
strength ; the people fell before him ; as the grass by 
the staff of the boy, when he whistles along the field, 
and the gray beard of the thistle falls. But careless 
the youth moves on ; his steps are towards the desert. 
Gray morning rose around us ; the winding streams 
are bright along the heath. The foe gathered on a 
hill ; and the rage of Lathmon rose. He bent the red 
eye of his wrath : he is silent in his rising grief. He 
often struck his bossy shield : and his steps are unequal 
on the heath. I saw the distant darkness of the hero, 
and I spoke to Morni's son. 

" Car-borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold the 
foe ? They gather on the hill in their wrath. Let our 
steps be toward the king.* He shall rise in his strength, 
and the host of Lathmon vanish. Our fame is around 
us, warrior ; the eyes of the agcdf will rejoice. But 
let us fly, son of Morni, Lathmon descends the hill." 
" Then let our steps be slow," replied the fair-haired 
Gaul ; " lest the foe say with a smile, * Behold the 
warriors of night ! They are, like ghosts, terrible in 
darkness ; they melt away before the beam of the east.' 
Ossian, take the shield of Gormar, who fell beneath 
thy spear. The aged heroes will rejoice, beholding 
the deeds of their sons." 

Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath 
came to car-borne Lathmon : Sulmath chief of Datha, 
at the dark-rolling stream of Duvranna. " Why dost 
thou not rush, son of Nuath, with a thousand of thy 
heroes ? Why dost thou not descend with thy host 
l^efore the warriors fly ? Their blue arms are beam- 
ing to the rising light, and their steps are before us on 
the heath !" 



Fingal. f Fingal and Momi. 

31* 



9l6 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

" Son of the feeble hand," said Lathmon, " shall my 
host descend ? They are But two, son of Dutha ! shall 
a thousand lift the steel ? Nuath would mourn in his 
hall, for the departure of his fame. His eyes would 
turn from Lathmon, when the tread of his feet a p. 
preached. Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha ! I 
behold the stately steps of Ossian. His fame is worthy 
of my steel ! let us contend in fight." 

The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words 
of the king. I raised the shield on my arm : Gaul 
placed in my hand the sword of Morni. We returned to 
the murmuring stream ; Lathmon came down in his 
strength. His dark host rolled, like clouds, behind 
him ; but the son of Nuiith was bright in his steel. 

*' Son of Fingal," said the hero, " thy fame has 
grown on our fall. How many lie there of my people 
by thy hand, thou king of mai ! Lift now thy spear 
against Lathmon ; lay the son of Nuath low ! Lay him 
low among his warriors, or thou thyself must fall ! It 
shall never be told in my halls, that my people fell in 
my presence : that they fell in the presence of Lath- 
mon when his sword rested by his side : the blue eyes 
of Cutha would roll in tears ; her steps be lonely in 
the vales of Dunlatlimon !" 

" Neither shall it be told," I replied, " that the son 
of Fingal fled. Were his steps covered with darkness, 
yet would not Ossian fly ! Flis soul would meet him 
and say, ' Does the bard of Selma fear the foe V No : 
he does not fear the foe. His joy is in the midst 'jf 
battle." 

Lathmon came on with his spear. He pierced the 
shield of Ossian. I felt the cold steel by my side. I 
drew the sword of Morni. I cut the spear in twain. 
The bright point fell glittei-ing on earth. The son of 
Nuiith burnt in his wrath. He lifted high his sounding 
shield. His dark eyes rolled above it, as, bending for- 



LATHMON. 367 

ward, it shone like a gate of brass. But Ossian's spear 
pierced the brightness of its bosses, and sunk in a tree 
that rose behind. The shield hung on the quivering 
lance I But Lathmon still advanced ! Gaul foresaw 
the fall of the chief. He stretched his buckler before 
my sword, when it descended, in a stream of light, over 
the king of Dunlathmon ! 

Lathmon beheld the son of Morni. The tear started 
from his eye. He threw the sword of his fathers on 
the earth, and spoke the words of the brave. 

" Why should Lathmon fight against the first of 
men ? Your souls are beams from heaven ; your 
swords the flames of death ! Who can equal the re- 
nown of the heroes, whose deeds arc so great in youth ? 
O that ye were in the halls of Nuath, in the green 
dwelling of Lathmon ! Then would my father say that 
his son did not yield to the weak. But who comes, a 
mighty stream, along the echoing heath ? The little 
hills are troubled before him. A thousand ghosts are 
on the beams of his steel ; the ghosts of those who are 
to fall by the king of resounding Morven. Happy art 
thou, O Fingal ! thy son shall fight thy wars. They 
go forth before thee : they return with the steps of 
their renown !" 

Fingal came in his mildness, rejoicing in secret over 
the deeds of his son. Morni 's face brightened with 
gladness. His aged eyes look faintly through tears 
of joy. We came to the halls of Selma. We sat 
around the feasts of shells. The maids of song came 
in to our presence, and the mildly -blushing Everallin ! 
Her hair spreads on her neck of snow, her eye rolls 
in secret on Ossian. She touched the harp of music ! 
we blessed the daughter of Branno ! 

Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Lathmon, king 
of spears. The sword of Trenmor shook by his side, 
as high he raised his mighty arm. " Son of Nuiilh," 



368 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

he said, " why dost thou search for fame in Morven ? 
We are not of the race of the feeble ; our swords gleam 
not over the weak. When did we rouse thee, O Lath- 
mon, with the sound of war ? Fingal does not delight 
in battle, though his arm is strong ! My renown grows 
on the fall of the haughty. The light of ray steel pours 
on the proud in arms. The battle comes ! and the 
tombs of the valiant rise ; the tombs of my people rise, 
O my fathers ! I at last must remain alone ! But I will 
remain renowned : the departure of my soul shall be a 
stream of light. Lathmon ! retire to thy place ! Turn 
thy battles to other lands ! The race of Morven are 
renowned ; their foes arc the sons of the unhappy." 



DAR-THULA. 



ARGUMENT. 



It may not be improper here to give the story which is the founda. 
lion of this poem, as it is handed down by tradition. Usnoth, 
lord of Etha, which is probably that part of Argyleshire which is 
near Loch Eta, an arm of ihe sea in Lorn, had three sons, Na- 
thos, Althos, and Ardan, by SUssama, the daughter of Semo, and 
sister to the celebrated Cathullin. The three brothers, when very 
young, were sent over to Ireland by their lather, to learn the use 
of arms under their uncle Cuthullin, v/ho made a great figure in 
that kingdom. They were just landed in Ulster, when the news 
of Cuthullin's death arrived. Nathos, though very young, took 
the command of Cuthullin's army, made head against Cairbar the 
usurper, and defeated him in several battles. Cairbar at last, hav- 
ing found means to murder Corrnac, the lawful king, the army 
of Nathos shifted sides, and he himself was obliged to return into 
Ulster, in order to pass over into Scotland. 

Dar-thula, the daughter of Colla, with whom Cairbar was in love, 
resided at that time in Selama, a castle in Ulster. She saw, fell 
in love, and fled with Nathos ; but a storm rising at sea, they 
were unfortunately driven back on that part of the coast of Ulster, 
where Cairbar was encamped with his army. The three brothers, 
after having defended themselves for some tirrie w4th great bra- 
very, were overpowered and slain, and the unfortunate Dar-thula 
killed herself upon the body of her beloved Nathos. 

The poem opens on the night preceding the death of the sons of 
Usnoth, and brings in, by way of episode, what passed before. 
It relates the death of Dar-thula ditlerenily from the common 
tradition. This account is the most probable, as suicide seema 
to have been unknown in those early times, lor no traces of it 
are found in the old poetry. 

Daughter of heaven, fair art thou ! the silence of 
ih} face is pleasant ! Thou comest forth in lovelines?. 
The stars attend thy blue course in the east. The 
clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon ! They 
brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in 
heaven, light of the silent night '? The stars are 
ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their 
sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy 



3W THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

course when the darkness of thy countenance grows ? 
Hast thou thy hall, like Ossian ? Dwellest thou in the 
shadow of grief 1 Have thy sisters fallen from heaven ? 
Are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more 1 
Yes, they have fallen, fair light ! and thou dost often 
retire to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail one night, 
and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will 
then lift their heads : they who were ashamed in thy 
presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy 
brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst 
the cloud, O wind ! that the daughters of night may 
look forth ; that the shaggy mountains may brighten, 
and the ocean roll its white waves in light ! 

Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of 
youth ! Ardan is near his brothers. They move in 
the gloom of their course. The sons of Usnoth move 
in darkness, from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who 
is that, dim by their side ? The night has covered her 
beauty ! Her hair sighs on ocean's wind. Her robe 
streams in dusky wreaths. She is like the fair spirit 
of heaven in the midst of the shadowy mist. Who is 
it but Dar-thula, the first of Erin's maids ? She has 
fled from the love of Cairbar, witli blue-shielded Nathos. 
But the winds deceive thee, O Dar-thula ! They deny 
the woody Etha to thy sails. These are not the moun- 
tains of Nathos ; nor is that the roar of his climbing 
waves. The halls of Cairbar are near : the towers of 
the foe lift their heads ! Erin stretches its green head 
into the sea. Tura's bay receives the ship. Where 
have ye been, ye southern winds, when the sons of my 
love were deceived ? But ye have been sporting on 
the plains, pursuing the thistle's beard. O that ye had 
been rustling in the sails of Nathos, till the hills of 
Etha arose ! till they arose in their clouds, and saw 
their returning chief! Long hast thou been absent, 
Nathos ! the day of thy return is past ! 



DAR-TIIULA. - 371 

But the land of strangers sav/ thee lovely ! thou, 
wast lovely in the eyes of Dar-thula. Thy face was 
like the light of tlie morning. Thy hair like the ra- 
ven's wing. Thy soul was generous and mild, like the 
hour of the setting sun. Thy words were the gale of 
the reeds ; the gliding stream of Lora ! But when the 
rage of battle rose, thou wast a sea in a storm. The 
clang of thy arms was terrible : the host vanished at 
the sound of thy course. It was then Dar-thula beheld 
thee, from the top of her mossy tower ; -from the tower 
of Selama, where her fathers dwelt. 

" Lovely art thou, O stranger !'' she said, for her 
trembling soul arose. " Fair art thou in thy battles, 
friend of the fallen Cormac ! Why dost thou rush on 
in thy valor, youth of the ruddy look ? Few are thy 
hands in fisht acainst the dark-brown Cairbar ! O that 
I might be freed from his love, that I might rejoice in 
the presence of Nathos ! Blest are the rocks of Etha ! 
they will behold his steps at the chase ; they will see 
his white bosom, when the winds lift his flowing hair!" 
Such were thy words, Dar-thula, in Selama's mossy 
towers. But now the night is around thee. The winds 
have deceived thy sails — the winds have deceived thy 
sails, Dar-thula ! Their blustering sound is high. Cease 
a little while, O north wind ! Let me hear the voice 
of the lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Dar-thula, between 
the rustling blasts ! 

"Are these the rocks of Nathos?" she said, '-this 
the roaring of his mountain streams ? Comes that 
beam of light from Usnoth's nightly hall ? The mist 
spreads around ; the beam is feeble and distant far. 
But the light of Dar-thula's soul dwells in the chief of 
Etha ! Son of the generous Usnoth, why that broken 
sigh? Are we in the land of strangers, chief of echo- 
ing Etha?" 

"These are not the rocks of Nathos," he rephcd. 



372 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

*' nor this the roar of his stream. No light cornea 
from Etha's hall, for they are distant far. We are in 
the land of strangers, in the land of cruel Cairbar. 
The winds have deceived us, Dar-tbula. Erin lifts 
here her hills. Go towards the north, Althos : be thy 
steps, Ardan, along the coast 5 that the foe may not 
come in darkness, and our hopes of Etha fail. 1 will 
go towards that mossy tower, to see who dwells about 
the beam. Rest, Dar-thula, on the shore ! rest in 
peace, thou lovely light ! the sword of Nathos is around 
thee, like the lightning of heaven !" 

He went. She sat alone : she heard the rolling of 
the wave. The big tear is in her eye. She looks for 
returning Nathos. Her soul trembles at the blast. 
She turns her car towards the tread of his feet. The 
tread of his feet is not heard. " Where art thou, son 
of my love ! The roar of the blast is around me. 
Dark is the cloudy night. But Nathos does not return. 
What detains thee, chief of Etha ? Have the foes met 
the hero in the strife of the night V 

He returned ; but his face was dark. He had seen 
his departed friend ! It was the wall of Tura. The 
ghost of Cuthullin stalked there alone ; the sighing of 
his breast was frequent. The decayed flame of his 
eyes was terrible ! His spear was a column of mist. 
The stars looked dim through his form. His voice 
was like hollow wind in a cave : his eye a light seen 
afar. He told the. t;ile of grief. The soul of Nathos 
was sad, like the sun in the day of mist, when his face 
is watery and dim. 

" Why art thou sad, O Nathos !" said the lovely 
daughter of Colla. " Thou art a pillow of light to 
Dar-thula. The joy of her eyes is in Etha's chief. 
Where is my friend, but Nathos? My father, my 
brother is fallen ! Silence dwells on Selama. Sadness 
spreads on the blue streams of my land. My friends 



DAR-THULA. 373 

have fallen with Cormac. The mighty were slain in 
the battles of Erin. Hear, son of Usnoth ! hear, O 
Nathos ! my tale of grief. 

" Evening darkened on the plain. The blue streams 
failed before mine eyes. The unfrequent blast came 
rustling in the tops of Selama's groves. My seat was 
beneath a tree, on the walls of my fathers. Truthil 
past before my soul ; the brother of my love : he that 
was absent in battle against the haughty Cairbar! 
Bending on his spear, the gray-haired Colla came. His 
downcast face is dark, and sorrow dwells in his soul. 
His sword is on the side of the hero ; the helmet of 
his fathers on his head. The battle grows in his 
breast. He strives to hide the tear. 

" ' Dar-thula, my daughter,' he said, ^ thou art the 
last of Colla's race ! Truthil is fallen in battle. The 
chief of Selama is no more ! Cairbar comes, with his 
thousands, towards Selama's walls. Colla will meet 
his pride, and revenge his son. But where shall I find 
thy safety, Dar-thula with the dark-brown hair ! thou 
art lovely as the sunbeam of heaven, and thy friends 
are low !' ' Is the son of battle fallen V I said, with a 
bursting sigh. 'Ceased the generous soul of Truthil to 
lighten through the field ? My safety, Colla, is in that 
bow. I have learned to pierce the deer. Is not Cair- 
bar like the hart of the desert, father of fallen Truthil V 

" The face of age brightened with joy. The crowd- 
ed tears of his eyes poured down. The lips of Colla 
trembled. His gray beard whistled in the blast, 
' Thou art the sister of Truthil,' he said ; ' thou burnest 
in the fire of his soul. Take, Dar-thula, take that 
spear, that brazen shield, that burnished helm ; they 
are the spoils of a warrior, a son of early youth! 
When the light rises on Selama, we go to meet the 
car-borne Cairbar. But keep thou near the arm of 
Colla, beneath the shadow of my shield. Thy father, 
32 



374 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Dar-thula. could once defend thee ; but age is trembling 
on his hand. The strength of his arm has failed. Hii- 
soul is darkened with grief.' 

" We passed the night in sorrow. The light ol 
morning rose. I shone in the arms of battle. The 
gray-haired hero moved before. The sons of Selama 
convened around the sounding shield of Colla. But few 
were they in t-ha plain, and their locks were gray. The? 
youths had fallen with Truthil, in the battle of car-borne 
Cormac. ' Friends of my youth,' said Colla, ' it was 
not thus you have seen me in arms. It was not thus I 
strode to battle when the great Confaden fell. But ye 
are laden with grief. The darkness of age comes like 
the mist of the desert. My shield is worn with years ! 
my sword is fixed in its place !* I said to my soul, 
Thy evening shall be calm ; thy departure like a fading 
light. But the storm has returned. I bend like an 
aged oak. My boughs are fallen on Selama. I trem- 
ble in my place. Where art thou, with thy fallen he- 
roes, O my beloved Truthil ! Thou answerest not from 
thy rushing blast. The soul of thy father is sad. But 
I will be sad no more ! Cairbar or Colla must fall ! 
I feel the returning strength of my arm. My heart 
leaps at the sound of war.' 

" The hero drew his sword. The gleaming blades 
of his people rose. They moved along the plain. 
Their gray hair streamed in the wind. Cairbar sat at 
the feast, in the silent plain of Lena. He saw tho 
coming of the heroes. He called his chiefs to war 
Why should I tell to Nathos how the strife of battlo 
grew 1 I have seen thee in the midst of thousands, like 

* It was the custom of ancient times, that every warrior, at a 
certain age, or when he became unfit for the field fixed his arms 
in the great hall, where the tribes feae-ted upon joyful GCcat=ioris. 
He was afterward never to appear in battle ; and this stage of life 
was called the " time of fixing the arms." 



DAR-THULA. 375 

the beam of heaven's fire : it is beautiful, but terrible ; 
the people fall in its dreadful course. The spear of 
Col la flew. He remembered the battles of his youth. 
An arrow came with its sound. It pierced the hero's 
side. He fell on his echoing shield. My soul started 
with fear. I stretched my buckler over him : but my 
heaving breast was seen ! Cairbar came with his spear. 
He beheld Selama's maid. Joy rose on his dark-brown 
face. He stayed his lifted steel. He raised the tomb 
of Colla. He brought me weeping to Selama. He 
spoke the words of love, but my soul was sad. I saw 
the shields of my fathers ; the sword of car-borne Tru- 
thil. I saw the arms of the dead ; the tear was on my 
cheek ! Then thou didst come, O Nathos ! and gloomy 
Cairbar fled. He fled like the ghost of the desert be- 
fore the morning's beam. His host was not near ; and 
feeble was his arm against thy steel ! Why art thou 
sad, O Nathos ?" said the lovely daughter of Colla. 

" I have met," replied the hero, " the battle in my 
youth. My arm could not lift the spear when danger 
first arose. My soul brightened in the presence of war, 
as the green narrow vale, when the sun pours his 
streamy beams, before he hides his head in a storm. 
The lonely traveller feels a mournful joy. He sees the 
darkness that slowly comes. My soul brightened in 
danger before I saw Selama's fair ; before I saw thee, 
like a star that shines on the hill at night ; the cloud 
idvances, and threatens the lovely light ! We are in 
.he land of foes. The winds have deceived us, Dar- 
-iiula ! The strength of our friends is not near, nor 
the mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace, 
daughter of mighty Colla ! The brothers of Nathos 
are brave, and his own sword has shone in fight. But 
what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of dark-brown 
Cairbar ! O that the winds had brought thy sails, Oscar 
king of men ! Thou didst promise to come to the bat- 



376 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

ties of fallen Cormac ! Then would my hand be strong 
as the flaming arm of death. Cairbar would tremble 
in his halls, and peace dwell round the lovely Dar-thula. 
But why dost thou fall, my soul ? The sons of Usnoth 
may prevail !" 

"And they will prevail, O Nathos !". said the rising 
sou of the maid. " Never shall Dar-thula behold tho 
hihs of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those arms of brass, 
that glitter to the passing meteor. I see them dimly in 
the dark-bosomed ship. Dar-thula will enter the bat- 
tles of steel. Ghost of the noble Colla ! do I behold 
thee on that cloud ! Who is that dim beside thee ? Is 
it the car-borne Truthil ? Shall I behold the halls of 
him that slew Selama's chief? No: I will not behola 
them, spirits of my love !" 

Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard the 
white-bosomed maid. "Daughter of Selama! thou 
shinest along my soul. Come, with thy thousands, 
Cairbar ! the strength of Nathos is returned ! Thou, 
O aged Usnoth ! shalt not hear that thy son has fled. 
J remembered thy words on Etha, when my sails began 
to rise : when I spread them towards Erin, towards the 
mossy walls of Tura ! ' Thou goest,' he said, ' O Na- 
thos, to the king of shields ! Thou goest to Cutliullin, 
chief of men, who never fled from danger. Let not 
thine arm be feeble : neither be thy thoughts of flight ; 
k^st the son of Semo should say that Etha's race are 
weak. His words may come to Usnoth, and sadden 
his sou.' in the hall.' The tear was on my father's 
cheek. He gave this shining sword ! 

" I came to Tura's bay ; but the halls of Tura were 
silent. I looked around, and there was none to tell of 
the son of generous Semo. I went to the hall of shells, 
where the arms of his fathers hung. But the arms 
were gone, and aged Lamhor sat in tears. ' Whence 
are the arms of steel V said the rising Lamhor. * The 



DA R-THULA. 377 

light of the spear has long been absent from Tura's 
dusky walls. Come ye from the rolling sea ? or from 
Temora's mournful halls V 

" ' We come from the sea,' I said, ' from Usnoth's 
rising towers. We are the sons of Slissama, the 
daughter of car-borne Semo. Where is Tura's chief, 
son of the silent hall ? But why should Nathos ask ? 
for I behold thy tears. How did the mighty fall, son 
of the lonely Tura V ' He fell not,' Lamhor replied, 
'like the silent star of night, when it flies through 
darkness and is no more. But he was like a meteor 
that shoots into a distant land. Death attends its dreary 
course. Itself is the sign of wars. Mournful are the 
banks of Lego ; and the roar of streamy Lara ! There 
the hero fell, son of the noble Usnoth !' ' The hero 
fell in the midst of slaughter,' I said with a bursting 
sigh. ' His hand was strong in war. Death dimly 
sat behind his sword.' 

" We came to Lego's sounding banks. We found 
his rising tomb. His friends in battle are there : his 
bards of many songs. Three days we mourned over the 
hero : on the fourth I struck the shield of Caithbat. 
The heroes gathered around with joy, and shook their 
beamy spears. Corlath was near with his host, the 
friend of car-borne Cairbar. We came like a stream 
by night. His heroes fell before us. When the peo- 
ple of the valley rose, they saw their blood with morn- 
ing's light. But we rolled away, like wreaths of mist, 
to Cormac's echoing hall. Our SAvords rose to defend 
the king. But Temora's halls were empty. Cormac 
Lad fallen in his youth. The king of Erin was no 
more ! 

"Sadness seized the sons of Erin. They slowly, 
gloomily retired : like clouds that long having threat- 
ened rain, vanish behind the hills. The sons of Us- 
noth moved, in their grief, towards Tura's sounding 
32* 



378 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

bay. We passed by Selama. Cairbar retired like 
Lena's mist, when driven before the winds. It was 
then I beheld thee, O Dar-thula ! like the light of Etha's 
sun. * Lovely is that beam!' I said. The crowded 
sigh of my bosom rose. Tliou camest in thy beauty, 
Dar-thula, to Etha's mournful chief. But the winds 
have deceived us, daughter of Colla, and the foe is 
near !" 

" Yes, the foe is near," said the rushing strength of 
Althos. " I heard their clanging arms on the coast. 
I saw the dark wreaths of Erin's standard. Distinct 
is the voice of Cairbar ; loud as Cromla's falling stream. 
He had seen the dark ship on the sea, before the dusky 
night came down. His people watch on Lena's plain. 
They lift ten thousand swords." " And let them lift 
ten thousand swords," said Nathos with a smile. " The 
sons of car-borne Usnoth will never tremble in danger ! 
Why dost thou roll with all thy foam, thou roaring sea 
of Erin ? Why do ye rustle on your dark wings, ye 
whistling storms of the sky 1 Do ye think, ye storms, 
that ye keep Nathos on the coast ? No : his soul de- 
tains him, children of the night ! Althos, bring my 
father's arms : thou seest them beaming to the stars. 
Bring the spear of Semo. It stands in the dark-bosomed 
ship !" 

He brought the arms. Nathos covered his limbs in 
all their shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely. 
The joy of his eyes was terrible. He looks townrds 
the coming of Cairbar. The wind is rustling in his 
hair. Dar-thula is silent at his side. Her look is fixed 
on the chief. She strives to hide the rising sigh. Two 
tears swell in her radiant eyes ! 

" Althos !" said the chief of Etha, " I see a cave in 
that rock. Place Dar-thula there. Let thy arm, my 
brother, be strong. Ardan ! we meet the foe ; call to 
battle gloomy Cairbar. O that he came in his sound 



DAR-THULA. 379 

ing steel, to meet the son of Usiioth ! Dar-thula, if 
thou shalt escape, look not on the fallen Nathos ! Lift 
thy sails, O Althos ! towards the echoing groves of my 
land. 

" Tell the chief that his son fell with fame ; that my 
sword did not shun the fight. Tell him I fell in the 
midst of thousands. Let the joy of his grief be great. 
Daughter of Colla I call the maids to Etha's echoing 
hall ! Let their songs arise for Nathos, when shadowy 
autumn returns. O that the voice of Cona, that Ossian 
might be heard in my praise ! then would my spirit re- 
joice in the midst of the rushing winds." " And my 
voice shall praise thee, Nathos, chief of the woody 
Etha ! The voice of Ossian shall rise in thy praise, 
son of the generous Usnoth ! Why was I not on Lena 
when the battle rose ? Then would the sword of Os- 
sian defend thee, or himself fall low !" 

We sat that night in Selma, round the strength of 
the shell. The wind was abroad in the oaks. The 
spirit of the mountain* roared. The blast came rus- 
tling through the hall, and gently touched my harp. 
The sound was mournful and low, like the song of 
the tomb. Fingal heard it the first. The crowded 
sighs of his bosom rose. " Some of my heroes are 
low," said the gray-haired king of Morven. " I hear 
the sound of death on the harp. Ossian, touch the 
trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise, that their spirits 
may fly with joy to Morven's woody hills !" I touched 
the harp before the king ; the sound was mournful and 
low. " Bend forward from your clouds," I said, 
" ghosts of my fathers ! bend. Lay by the red terror 
of your course. Receive the fallen chief; whether he 
comes from a distant land, or rises from the rolling sea. 

* By the spirit of the mountain, is meant that deep and melan- 
choly sound which precedes a storm, well known to tnose who Uv» 
in a high country. 



380 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Let his robe of mist be near ; his spear that is formed 
of a cloud. Place an half-extinguished meteor by his 
side, in the form of the hero's sword. And, oh ! let 
his countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight 
in his presence. Bend from your clouds," I said, 
" ghosts of my fathers ! bend !" 

Such was my song in Selma. to the lightly-trembling 
harp. But Nathos was on Erin's shore, surrounded 
by the night. He heard the voice of the foe, amidst 
the roar of tumbling waves. Silent he heard their 
voice, and rested on his spear ! Morning rose, with 
its beams. The sons of Erin appear : like gray rocks, 
with all their trees, they spread along the coast. Cair- 
bar stood in the midst. He grimly smiled when he 
saw the foe. Nathos rushed forward in his strength : 
nor could Dar-thula stay behind. She came with the 
hero, lifting her shining spear. " And who are these, 
in their armor, in the pride of youth ? Who brt tlio 
sons of Usnoth, Althos and dark-haired Ardan ?'' 

" Come," said Nathos, "come, chief of high Temo- 
ra ! Let our battle be on the coast, for the white- 
bosomed maid. His people are not with Nathos : they 
are behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou bring 
thy thousands against the chief of Etha ? Thou didst 
fly from him in battle, when his friends were around 
his spear." " Youth of the heart of pride, shall Erin's 
king fight with thee ? Thy fathers were not among 
the renowned, nor of the kings of men. Are the arms 
of foes in their halls ? or the shields of other times ? 
Cairbar is renowned in Tcmora, nor does he fight with 
feeble men !" 

The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He turned 
his eyes to his brothers. Their spears flew at once. 
Three heroes lay on earth. Then the light of their 
swords gleamed on high. The ranks of Erin yield, as 
a ridge of dark clouds before a blast of wind ! Then 



DAR-TIIULA. 381 

Cairbar ordered his people, and they drew a thousand 
bows. A thousand arrows flew. The sons of Usnoth 
fell in blood. They fell like three young oaks, which 
stood alone on the hill : the traveller saw the lovely 
trees, and wondered how they grew so lonely : the 
blast of the desert came by night, and laid their green 
heads low. Next day he returned, but they were with- 
ered, and the heath was bare ! 

Dar-thula stood in silent grief, and beheld their fall ! 
No tear is in her eye. But her look is wildly sad. 
Pale was her cheek. Her trembling lips broke short 
an half-formed word. Her dark hair flew on wind. 
The gloomy Cairbar came. " Where is thy lover 
now ? the car-borne chief of Etha ? Hast thou be- 
held the halls of Usnoth ? or the dark-brown hills of 
Fingal '? My battle would have roared on Morven, had 
not the winds met Dar-thula. Fingal himself would 
have been low, and sorrow dwelling in Selma !" Her 
shield fell from Dar-thula's arm. Her breast of snow 
appeared. It appeared ; but it was stained with 
blood. An arrow was fixed in her side. She fell 
on the fallen Natlios, like a wreath of snow ! Her 
hair spreads wide on his face. Their blood is mixing 
round ! 

" Daughter of Colla ! thou art low !" said Cairbar 's 
hundred bards. " Silence is at the blue streams of 
Selama. Truthil's race have failed. When wilt thou 
rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids ? Thy sleep 
is lonjT in the tomb. The morning distant far. The 
sun shall not come to thy bed and say. Awake, Dar- 
thula ! awake, thou first of women ! the wind of spring 
is abroad. The flowers shake their heads on the green 
hills. The woods wave their growing leaves. Retire, 
sun ! the daughter of Colla is asleep. She will not 
come forth in her beauty. She will not move in the 
steps of her loveliness. '^ 



382 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Sucli was the song of the bards, when they raised 
the tomb. I sung over the grave, when the king of 
Morven came : when he came to green Erin to fight 
with car-borne Gairbar ! 



THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN. 

ARGUMENT. 

Cuthullin, after the anns of Fin^al had expelled Swaran from Ire- 
land, continued to manage tne affairs of that kingdom as the 
guardian of Corraac the young king. In the thira year of Cu- 
thullin's administration, Torlath, the son of Cantela, rebelled in 
Connaught: and advanced to Temora to dethrone Cormac. Cu- 
thulUn marched against him, came up with him at the lake of 
Lego, and totally defeated his forces. Torlath fell in battle by 
Cuthullin's hand ; but as he too eagerly pressed on the enemy, 
he was moitally wounded. The affairs of Cormac, though lor 
some time supported by Nathos, as mentioned in the preceding 

goem, fell into confusion at the death of Cuthullin. Cormac 
imself was slain by the rebel Cairbar ; and the re-establiehment 
of the royal family of Ireland, by Fingal, furnishes the subject of 
the epic poem of Temora. 

Is the wind on the shield of Fingal l Or is the 
voice of past times in my hall ? Sing on, sweet voice ! 
for thou art pleasant. Thou carriest away my night 
with joy. Sing on, O Bragela, daughter of car-borne 
Sorglan ! 

" It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuthul- 
lin's sails. Often do the mists deceive me for the ship 
of my love ! when they rise round some ghost, and 
spread their gray skirts on the wind. Why dost thou 
delay thy coming, son of the generous Semo ? Four 
times has autumn returned with its winds, and raised 
the seas of Togorma,* since thou hast been in the roar 
of battles, and Bragela distant far ! Hills of the isle 
of mist ! when will ye answer to his hounds ? But ye 
are dark in your clouds. Sad Bragela calls in vain ! 
Night comes rolling down. The face of ocean falls. 
The heath-cock's head is beneath his wing. The hind 

* Togorma, i. e. "the island of blue waves," one of the He. 
brides. 



384 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

sleeps with the liart of tlie desert. They shall rise 
with morning's light, and feed by the mossy stream. 
But my tears return with the sun. My sighs come on 
with tlie night. When wilt thou come in thine arms, 
O chief of Erin's wars ?" 

Pleasant is thy voice in Ossian's ear, daughter of 
car-borne Sorglan ! But retire to the hall of shells ; 
to the beam of the burning oak. Attend to the mur- 
mur of the sea : it rolls at Dunscai's walls : let sleep 
descend on thy blue eyes. Let the hero arise in tliy 
dreams ! 

Cuthullin sits at Lego'i lake, at the dark rolling of 
waters. Night is aroui. ^ the hero. His thousands 
spread on the I eath. A hundred oaks burn in the 
midst. The feast of the. s is smoking wide. Carril 
strikes the harp beneath a tree. His gray locks glitter 
in the beam. The rustling blast of night is near, and 
lifts his aged hair. His song is of the blue Togorma, 
and of its chief, Cuthullin's friend ! " Why art thou 
absent, Connai, in the days W the gloomy storm ? The 
chiefs of the south have convened against the car-borne 
Cormac. The winds detain thy sails. Thy blue 
waters roll around thee. But Cormac is not alone. 
The son of Semo fights his wars ! Semo's son his 
battles fights ! the terror of the stranger ! He that is 
like the vapor of death, slowly borne by sultry winds. 
The sun reddens in its presence ; the people fall 
around." 

Such was the song of Carril, when a son of the foe 
appeared. He threw down his pointless spear. He 
spoke the words of Torlath ; Torlath, chief of heroes, 
from Lego's sable surge ! He that led his thousands 
to battle, against car-borne Cormac. Cormac, who 
was distant far, in Temora's echoing halls : he learned 
to bend the bow of his fathers ; and to lift the spear. 
Nor long didst thou lift the spear, mildly-shining 




Uo-rfsands ppread on the hen; 



THE DEAIH OF CUTHULLIN. 386 

beam of youth ! death stands dim behind thee, like 
the darkened half of the moon behind its growing 
light. Cuthullin rose before the bard, that came 
from generous Torlath. He offered him the shell of 
joy. He honored the son of songs. " Sweet voice 
of Lego !" he said, " what are the words of Torlath ? 
Comes he to om* feast or battle, the car-borne son of 
Cantela ?" 

" He comes to thy battle," replied the bard, " to the 
sounding strife of spears. When morning is gray on 
Lego, Torlath will fight on the plain. Wilt thou meet 
him, in thine arms, king of the isle of mist ? Terri- 
ble is the spear of Torlath ! it is a meteor of night. 
lie lifts it, and the people fall ! death sits in the light- 
ning of his sword V' — " Do I fear," replied Cuthullin, 
" the spear of car-borne Torlath ? He is brave as a 
thousand heroes : but my soul delights in war ! The 
sword rests not by the side of Cuthullin, bard of the 
times of old ! Morning shall meet me on the plain, 
and gleam on the blue arms of Semo's son. But sit 
thou on the heath, O bard, and let us hear thy voice. 
Partake of the joyful shell : and hear the songs of 
Temora !" 

" This is no timcj" replied the bard, " to hear the 
song of joy : when the mighty are to meet in battle, 
like the strength of the waves of Lego. Why art thou 
so dark, Slimora ! with all thy silent woods ? No star 
trembles on thy top. No moonbeam on thy side. But 
the meteors of death are there : the gray watery forms 
of ghosts. Why art thou dark, Slimora ! why thy 
silent woods ?" He retired, in the sound of his song, 
Carril joined his voice. The music was like the mem- 
ory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the 
3oul. The ghosts of departed bards heard on Slimora's 
side. Soft sounds spread along the wood. The silent 
valleys of night rejoice. So when he sits in the silence 



380 THE roEMs or ossian. 

of the day, in the valley of his breeze, the humming 
of the mountain bee comes to Ossian's ear : the gale 
drowns it in its course : but the pleasant sound returns 
again ! Slant looks the sun on the field ! gradual grows 
the shade of the hill ! 

" Raise," said Cuthullin to his hundred bards, " the 
song of the noble Fingal : that song which he hears 
at night, when the dreams of his rest descend ; when 
the bards strike the distant harp, and the faint light 
gleams on Selma's walls. Or let the grief of Lara 
rise : the sighs of the motlier of Calmar, when he was 
sought, in vain, on his hills ; when she beheld his bow 
in the hall. Carril, place the shield of Caithbat on 
that branch. Let the spear of Cuthullin be near : that 
the sound of my battle may rise, with the gray beam 
of the east." 

The hero leaned on his father's shield : the song of 
Lara rose ! The hundred bards were distant far : Car- 
ril alone is near the chief. The words of the song 
were his : the sound of his harp was mournful. 

" Alcletha with the aged locks ! mother of car-borne 
Calmar ! why dost thou look towards the desert, to be- 
hold the return of thy son ? These are not his heroes, 
dark on the heath ; nor is that the voice of Calmar. 
It is but the distant grove, Alcletha ! but the roar of 
the mountain-wind ! — *' Who bounds over Lara's stream, 
sister of the noble Calmar ? Does not Alcletha behold 
his spear ? But her eyes are dim ! Is it not the sen 
of Matha, daughter of my love V 

'' ' It is but an aged oak, Alcletha !' replied the 
lovely weeping Alona. ' It is but an oak, Alcle- 
tha, bent over Lara's stream. But who comes along 
the })lain ? sorrow is in his speed. He lifts high the 
spear of Calmar. Alclelha, it is covered with blood!'— 

* Alclethu speaks. 



THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN- 387 

^^ ' * But it is covered with the blood of foes, sister of 
'car-bornc Calmar ! His spear never returned unstained 
witii blood : nor his bow from the strife of the mighty. 
The battle is consumed in his presence : he is a flame 
of death, Alona ! — Youth of the mournful speed ! where 
is the son of Alcietha I Does he return with his fame, 
in the midst of his echoing shields ? Thou art dark 
and silent ! Calmar is then no more ! Tell me not, 
warrior, how he fell. I must not hear of his wound !' 
Why dost thou look towards the desert, mother of low^ 
laid Calmar?" 

Such was the song of Carril, when CuthuUin lay or 
his shield. The bards rested on their harps. Sleep 
fell softly around. The son of Semo was awake alone. 
His soul fixed on war. The burning oaks began to 
decay. Faint red light is spread around, A feeble 
voice is heard ! The ghost cf Calmar came ! He 
stalked dimly along the beam. Dark is the wound in 
his side. His hair is disordered and loose, loy sits pale 
•on his face. He seems to invite Cuthullin to his cave. 

"Son of the cloudy night!" said the rising chief of 
Erin ; " why dost thou bend thy dark eyes on me, 
ghost of the noble Calmar ? Wouldst thou frighten me, 
b Matha's son ! from the battles of Cormac ? Thy 
hand was not feeble in war : neither was thy voice for 
peace. How art thou changed, chief of Lara! if thou 
now dost advise to fly ! But^ Calmar, I never fled. I 
never feared the ghosts of night. Small is their know- 
iedge, weak their hands ; their dwelling is in the winde 
But my soul grows in danger, and rejoices in the noise 
of steel. Retire thou to thy cave. Thou art not Cal- 
mar 's ghost. He delighted in battle. His arm was 
like the thunder of heaven ! He retired in his blast 
with joy, for he had heard the voice of his praise.''^ 

* Alcletha ^eaks. 



388 THE roEMs or ossian. 

The faint beam of the morning rose. Thii sound 
of Cailhbat's buckler spread. Green Erin's warriors 
convened, like the roar of many streams. The horn 
of war is heard over Lego. The mighty Torlath 
came ! " Why dost thou come with thy thousands, Cu- 
thullin," said the chief of Lego. " 1 know the strength 
of thy arm. Thy soul is an unextinguished fire. Why 
fight we not on the plain, and let our hosts behold our 
deeds 'I Let them behold us like roaring waves, that 
tumble round a rock ; the mariners hasten away, and 
look on their strife with fear." 

" Thou risest like the sun, on my soul, replied the 
son of Semo. Thine arm is mighty, O Torlath ! and 
worthy of my wrath. Retire, ye men of Ullin, to Sli- 
mora's shady side. Behold the chief of Erin, in the 
day of his fame. Carril, tell to mighty Connal, if Cu- 
thulhn must fall, tell him I accuoed the winds, which 
roar on Togorma's waves. Never was he absent in 
battle, when the strife of my fame, arose. Let his 
sword be before Cormac, like the beam of heaven. 
Let his counsel sound in Temora, in the day of 
danger !" 

He rushed, in the sound of his arms-, like the terrible 
spirit of Loda, when he comes, in the roar of a thou- 
sand storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He 
sits on a cloud over Lochlin's seas. His mighty hand 
is on his sword. Winds lift his flaming locks ! The 
waning moon half lights his dreadful face. His fea- 
tures blended in darkness arise to view. So terrible 
was Cuthullin in the day of his fame. Torlath fell by 
his hand. Lego's heroes mourned. They gather 
around the chief, like the clouds of the desert. A 
thousand swords rose at once ; a thousand arrows flew ; 
but he stood like a rock in the midst of a roaring sea. 
They fell around. He strode in blood. Dark Slimora 
echoed wide. The sons of Ullin came. The battle 



THE DEATH OF CXJTHUI.LIN. 389 

spread over Lego. The chief of Erin overcame. He 
returned over the field with his fame. But pale he 
returned ! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled 
h>s eyes in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, in 
his hand. His spear bent at every step ! 

" Carril," said the chief in secret, " the strength of 
Cuthullin fails. My days are with the years that are 
past. No morning of mine shall arise. They shall 
seek me at Temora, but I shall not be found. Cormac 
will weep in his hall, and say. Where is Erin's chief? 
But my name is renowned ! my fame in the song of 
bards. The youth will say, in secret, O let me die as 
Cuthullin died ! Renown clothed him like a robe. The 
light of his fame is great. — Draw the arrow from my 
side. Lay Cuthullin beneath that oak. Place the 
shield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amidst 
the arms of my fathers !" 

" And is the son of Semo fallen ?" said Carril with 
a sigh. " Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow dwells 
at Dunscai. Thy spouse is left alone in her youth. 
The son of thy love is alone ! He shall come to Bra- 
gela and ask her why she weeps ! He shall lift his 
eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword. Whose 
sword is that ? he will say. The soul of his mother is 
sad. Who is that, like the hart of the desert, in the 
murmur of his course ? His eyes look wildly round in 
search of his friend. Connal, son of Colgar, where 
nast thou been, when the mighty fell ? Did the seas of 
Togorma roll around thee ? Was the wind of the south 
in thy sails'? The mighty have fallen in battle, and 
thou wast not there. Let none tell it in Selma, nor in 
Morven's woody land. Fingal will be sad, and the 
sons of the desert mourn !" 

By the dark-rolling waves of Lego they raised the 
Hero's tomb. Luath, at a distance, lies. The song 
df bards rose over the dead . 

:^3* 



390 THE rOET-JS OF OSSIAN, 

" * Blest be thy soul, son of Semo ! Thou wert 
mighty in battle. Thy strength was like the strength 
of a stream ; thy speed like the eagle's wing. Thy 
path in battle was terrible : the steps of death were be- 
hind thy sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo, car- 
borne chief of Dunsciii ! Thou hast not fallen by the 
sword of the mighty, neither was thy blood on the spear 
of the brave. The arrow came, like the sting of death 
in a blast : nor did the feeble hand, which drew the 
bow, perceive it. Peace to thy soul, in thy cave, chief 
of the isle of mist 1 

" The mighty am dispersed at Temora ; there 'm 
none in Cormac's hall. The king mourns in his youth. 
He does not behold thy return. The sound of thy 
shield is ceased : his foes are gathering round. Soft 
be thy rest in thy cave, chief of Erin's wars ! Bragela 
will not hope for thy return, or see thy sails in ocean's 
foam. Her steps are not on the shore : nor her ear 
open to the voice of thy rowers. She sits in the hall 
of shells. She sees the arms of him that is no more. 
Thine eyes are full of teal's, daughter of car-borne 
Sorglan! Blest be thy soul in death, O chief of shady 
Tura !" 

♦ This is the song af the bards over CuthalliE's tomb. 



THE BATTLE OF LOR A. 

ARGUMENT. 

I'lAgal, oij his return iVoui Ireland, alter he had expeLed Swaran 
from that kingdom, made a feast to all his heroes : he forgot to 
invite Ma-ronnan and Aldo, two chiefs, who had not been alon^ 
with him in his expedition. They resented his neglect ; and 
went over to Erragon, king of Sora, a country of Scandinavia. 
the declared enemy of Fiiigal. The valor of Aldo soon gained 
him a great reputation in Sora ; and Lorma, the beautiful wife 
of Erragon, fell in love with him. He iound means to escape 
with her, and to come to Fingal, who resided then in Selma, on 
the western coast. Erragon mvaded Scotland, and was slain in 
battle by Gaul, the son of Morni, after he had rejected terrns of 
peace otlered him by Fingal. In this war Aldo fell, in a single 
combat, by the hands of his rival En^agon, and the unfortunate 
Lorma afterward died of griet". 

Son of the distant land, who dweliest in the secret 
cell ; do I hear the sound of thy grove ? or is it thy 
voice of songs '? The torrent was loud in my ear ; but 
I heard a tuneful voice. Dost thou praise the chiefs 
of thy land : or the spirits of the wind ? But, lonely 
dweller of rocks I look thou on that heathy plain. Thou 
seest green tombs, with their rank, whistling grass :. 
with their stones of mossy heads. Thou seest them, 
son of the rock, but Ossian's eyes have failed! 

A mountain-stream com,es roaring down, and send.s 
it.s waters round a green hiJl. Four mos.sy stones, in 
the midst of withered grass, rear their heads on the 
top. Two trees which the storms have bent, spread 
their whistling branches around. This is thy dwelling, 
Erragon ; this thy narrow house ; the sound of thy 
shells has been long forgot in Sora. Thy shield is be- 
come dark in thy hall. Erragon, king of ships, chief 
of distant Sora ! how hast thou fallen on our mount- 



392 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

ains? How is the miglity low? Son of the secret cell! 
dost thou delight in songs ? Hear the battle of Lora. 
The sound of its steel is long since past. So thunder 
on the darkened hill roars and is no more. The sun 
returns with his silent beams. The glittering rocks, 
and the green heads of the mountains, smile. 

The bay of Cona received our ships from Erin's 
rollinii; waves. Our white sheets hung loose to the 
masts. The boisterous winds roared behind the groves 
of Morven. The horn of the king is sounded ; the 
deer start from their rocks. Our arrows flew in the 
woods. The feast of the hill is spread. Our joy was 
great on our rocks, for the fall of the terrible Swaran. 
Two heroes were forgot at our feast. The rage of 
their bosoms burned. They rolled their red eyes in 
secret. The sigh bursts from their breasts. They 
were seen to talk together, and to throw their spears 
on earth. They were two dark clouds in the midst of 
our joy; like pillars of mist on the settled sea : they 
glitter to the sun, but the mariners fear a storm. 

" Raise my white sails," said Ma-ronnan, " raisG 
them to the winds of the west. Let us rush, O Aldo ! 
through the foam of the northern wave. We are for- 
got at the feast : but our arms have been red in blood. 
Let us leave the hills of Fingal, and serve the king of 
Sorn. His countenance is fierce. War darkens 
around his spear. Let us be renowned, O Aldo, in 
the battles of other lands I" 

They took their swords, their shields of thongs. They 
rushed to Lumar's resounding bay. They came to 
Sora's haughty king, the chief of bounding steeds 
Erragon had returned from the chase. His spear was 
red in blood. He bent his dark face to the ground ; 
and whistled as he went. He took the strangers to 
his feast : they fought and conquered in his wars. 

Aldo returned with his fame towards Sora's loftv 



THE BATTLE OF LOR A. 393 

walls. From her tower looked the spouse of Erragon, 
the humid, rolUiig eyes of Lorma. Her yellow hair 
flics on the wind of ocean. Her white breast heaves, 
like snow on heath; when the gentle winds arise, and 
slowly move it in the light. She saw young Aldo, like 
the beam of Sora's setting sun. Her soft heart sighed. 
Tears filled her eyes. Her white arm supported her 
head. Three days she sat within the hall, and covered 
her grief with joy. On the fourth she fled with the 
hero, along the troubled sea. They came to Cona's 
mossy towers, to Fingal king of spears. 

" Aldo of the heart of pride !" said Fingal, rising in 
wrath; "shall I defend thee from the rage of Sora's 
injured king? Who will now receive my people into 
their halls ? Who will give the feast of strangers, since 
Aldo of the little soul has dishonored my name in Sora? 
Go to thy hills, thou feeble hand ! Go : hide thee in 
thy caves. Mournful is the battle we must fight with 
Sora's gloomy king. Spirit of the noble Trenmor ! 
v/hen will Fingal cease to fight ? I was born in the 
midst of battles,* and my steps must move in blood to 
the tomb. But my hand did not injure the weak, my 
steel did not touch the feeble in arms. I behold thy 
tempests, O Morven ! which will overturn my halls ! 
when my children are dead in battle, and none remains 
to dwell in Selma. Then will the feeble come, but 
they will not know my tomb. My renown is only in 
song. My deeds shall be as a dream to future times!" 

His people gathered around Erragon, as the storms 
round the ghosts of night ; when he calls them from 
the top of Morven, and prepares to pour them on the 
lana of tlie stranger. He came to the shore of Cona. 



^ Comhal, tne father of Fiiigal, was slain in battle, against the 
tribe of Morai, the very da^- that Fingal was born; so iliat he may. 
with propriety, be said to have been "bom in the midst of battles." 



394 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

He sent his bard to tlio king to demand the combat of 
tliousands: or the land of many hills! Fingal satin 
liis hall with the friends of his youth around him. The 
young heroes were at the chase, far distant in the des- 
ert. The gray-haired chiefs talked of other times ; 
of the actions of their youth ; when the aged Nartmor 
came, the chief of streamy Lora. 

" This is no time," said Nartmor, "to hear the songs 
of other years : Erragon frowns on the coast, and lifts 
ten thousand swords. Gloomy is the king among liis 
chiefs ! he is like the darkened moon amidst the meteors 
of night ; when they sail along her skirts, and give the 
light that has failed o'er her orb." "Come," said 
Fingal, "from thy hall, come, daughter of my love: 
come from thy hall, Bosmina, maid of streamy Mor- 
ven ! Nartmor, take the steeds of the strangers. At- 
tend the daughter of Fingal ! Let her bid the king of 
Sora to our feast, to Sclma's shaded wall. Offer him, 
O Bosmina ! the peace of heroes, and the wealth of 
generous Aldo. Our youths are far distant. Age is 
on our trembling hands!" 

She came to the host of Erragon, like a beam of 
light to a cloud. In her right hand was seen a spark- 
ling shell. In her left an arrow of gold. The first, 
the joyful mark of peace ! The latter, the sign of war. 
Erragon brightened in her presence, as a rock before 
the sudden beams of the sun ; when they issue from a 
broken cloud divided by the roaring wind ! 

" Son of the distant Sora," began the mildly. blush- 
ing maid, " come to the feast of Morven's king, to 
Selma's shaded walls. Take the peace of heroes, 
O warrior ! Let the dark sword rest by thy side. 
Choosest thou the wealth of kings ? Then hear the 
words of generous Aldo. He gives to Erragon a hun- 
dred steeds, the children of the rein ; a hundred maids 
from distant lands; a hundred hawks with fluttering 



THE BATTLE OF LOR A. 395 

wing, that fly across the sky. A hundred girdles* 
shall also be tiiinc, to bind high-bosomcd maids. The 
friends of the births of heroes. The cure of the sons 
of toil. Ten shells, studded with gems, shall shine in 
Sora's towers : the bright water trembles on their stars, 
and seems to be sparkling wine. They gladdened once 
the kings of the worId,f in the midst of their echoing 
halls. These, O hero ! shall be thine ; or thy white- 
bosomed spouse. Lorma shall roll her bright eyes in 
thy halls ; though Fingal loves the generous Aldo : 
Fingal, who never injured a hero, though his arm is 
strong !" 

" Soft voice of Cona !" replied the king, " tell him, 
he spreads his feast in vain. Let Fingal pour his 
spoils around me. Let him bend beneath my power. 
Let him give me the swords of his fathers : the shields 
of other times ; that my children may behold them in 
my halls, and say, ' These are the arms of Fingal !' " 
"Never shall they behold them in thy halls," said the 
rising pride of the maid. " They are in the hands of 
heroes, who never yield in war. King of echoing 
Sora ! the storm is gathering on our hills. Dost thou 
not foresee the fall of thy people, son of the distant 
land ?" 

She came to Selma's silent halls. The king beheld 
her downcast eyes. He rose from his place, in his 
strength. He shook his aged locks. He took the 
sounding mail of Trenmor. The dark-brown shield 
of his fathers. Darkness filled Selma's hall, when he 

* Sanctified girdles, tilt very lately, were kept in many families 
in the north of Scotland ; they were bound about women in labor, 
and were supposed to alleviate their pains, and to accelerate the 
birth. They were impressed with several mystical figures, and the 
ceremony of binding them about the woman's waist, was accom- 
panied with words and gestures, which showed the custom to have 
come originally from the Dndds 

\ The Roninn emperors 



390 THE i'OE;vrs of ossian. 

stretched liis hand to the spear : the ghosts of thou- 
sands were near, and foresaw the death of the people. 
Terrible joy rose in the face of the aged heroes. They 
rushed to meet the foe. Their thoughts are on the 
deeds of otlier years : and on the fame tliat rises from 
death ! 

Now at Trathal's ancient tomb the dogs of the chase 
appeared. Fingal knew that his young heroes follow- 
ed. He stopped in the midst of his course. Oscar 
appeared the first ; then Morni's son, and Nemi's race. 
Fercuth showed his gloomy form. Dermid spread his 
dark hair on wind. Ossian came the last. I hummed 
the song of other times. My spear supported my steps 
over the little streams. My thoughts were of mighty 
men. Fingal struck liis bossy shield, and gave the 
dismal sign of war. A thousand swords at once, un- 
sheathed, gleam on the waving heath. Three gray- 
haired sons of the song raise the tuneful, mournful 
voice. Deep and dark, with sounding steps, we rush, 
a gloomy ridge, along ; like the shower of the storm 
when it pours on a narrow vale. 

The king of Morven sat on his hill. The sunbeam 
of battle flew on the wind. The friends of his youth 
are near, with all their waving locks of age. .Toy rose 
in the hero's eyes when he Ijeheld his sons in war ; 
when he saw us amidst the lightning of swords, mind- 
ful of the deeds of our fathers. Erragon came on, in 
his strength, like the roar of a winter stream. The 
battle falls around his steps : death dimly stalks along 
by his side. 

" Who comes," said Fingal, " like the bounding 
roe ; like the hart of echoing Cona ? His shield glit- 
ters on his side. The clang of his arnior is mournful. 
He meets with Erragon in the strife. Behold the 
battle of the chiefs ! It is like the contending of ghosta 
in a gloomy storm. But fallest thou, son of the hili, 



THE P.AT']'r,K OF T.OKA, 'IDT 

and is thy white bosom stained with blood ? Wocp, 
unhappy Lornna ! Aide is no niore !" The king took 
the spear of his strength. He was sad for the fall of 
Aldo. He bent his deathful eyes on the foe : but Gaul 
met the king of Sora. Who can relate the fight of tho 
chiefs ? The mighty stranger fell ! " Sons of Cona V 
Fingal cried aloud, " stop the hand of death, flighty 
was he that is low. Much is he mourned in Sora ! 
The stranger will come towards his hall, and wonder 
why it is so silent. The king is fallen, O stranger ! 
The joy of his house is ceased. Listen to the sound 
of his woods ! Perhaps his ghost is murmuring there ! 
But he is far distant, on Morven, beneath the sword 
of a foreign foe." Such were the words of Fingal, 
when the bard raised the song of peace. We stopped 
our uplifted swords. We spared the feeble foe. Wo 
laid Erragon in a tomb. I raised the voice of grief. 
The clouds of night cam.e rolling down. The ghost 
of Erragon appeared to some. His face was cloudy 
and dark ; a half-formed sigh in his breast. '- Blest 
be thy soul, king of Sora ! thine arm was terrible 
in war !" 

Lorma sat in Aide's hall. She sat at the light of a 
flaming oak. The night came down, but he did not 
return. The soul of Lorma is sad ! " What detains 
thee, hunter of Cona ? Thou didst promise to return. 
Has the deer been distant far ? Do the dark winds 
sigh, round thee, on the heath? I am in the land^of 
strangers ; who is my friend, but Aldo 1 Come from 
thy sounding hills, O my best beloved !'' 

Her eyes are turned towards the gate. She listens 
to the rustling blast. She thinks it is Aide's tread. 
Joy rises in her face ! But sorrow returns again, like 
a thin cloud on the moon. " Wilt thou not return, my 
love ? Let me beheld the face of the hill. Tiie moon 
is in the east. Calm and bright i'^ tlm breast of the 



398 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

lake ! When shall I behold his dogs, returning from 
the chase ? When shall I hear his voice, loud and dis- 
tant on the wind ? Come from thy sounding hills, 
hunter of woody Cona !" His thin ghost appeared, on 
a rock, like a watery beam of feeble light : when the 
moon rushes sudden from between two clouds, and the 
midnight shower is on the field. She followed the 
empty form over the heath. She knew that her hero 
fell. I heard her approaching cries on the wind, like 
the mournful voice of the breeze, when it sighs on the 
grass of the cave ! 

She came. -She found her hero ! Her voice was 
heard no more. Silent she rolled her eyes. She was 
pale and wildly sad ! Few were her days on Cona. 
She sunk into the tomb. Fingal commanded his bards ; 
they sung over the death of Lorma. The daughters 
of Morven mourned her, for one day in the year, when 
the dark winds of autumn returned ! 

Son of the distant land ! Thou dwellest in the field 
of fame ! O let the song arise, at times, in praise of 
those who fell ! Let their thin ghosts rejoice arounn 
thee ; and the soul of Lorma come on a feeble beam ; 
when thou liest down to rest, and the moon looks into 
thy cave. Then shalt thou see her lovely ; but the 
i,ear is still on her cheek ! 



TEMORA. 

AN EPIC POEM. 
BOOK I. 

ARGUMENT. 

Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, lord of Atha, in Connaught, the 
most potent chief of the race of the Fir-bolg, having murdered, 
at Temora, the royal palace, Cormac, the son of Artho, the young 
king of Ireland, usurped the throne. Cormac was lineally de- 
ec(;nded from Conar, the son of Trenmor, the great-^randtather 
of Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited the western 
coast of Scotland. Fingal resented the behavior of Cairbar, and 
resolved to pass over into Ireland with an army, to re-establish 
the royal family on the Irish throne. Early intelligence of his 
designs coming to Cairbar, he assembled some of nis tribes in 
Ulsterj and at the same time ordered his brother Cathmor to fol- 
low him speedily with an army from Teniora. Such was the 
situation of affairs when the Caledonian invaders appeared on 
the coast of Ulster. 

The poem opens in the morning. Cairbar is represented as retired 
from the rest of the army, when one ol" his scouts brought him 
news of the landing of Fingal. He assembles a council of his 
chiefs. Foldath, tne chief of Moma, haughtily despises the 
enemy ; and is reprimanded warmly by Malthos. Cairbar, after 
hearing their debate, orders a feast to be prepared, to which, by 
his bard Gila, he invites Oscar, the son of Ossian ; resolving to 
pick a quarrel with that hero, and so have some pretext for kill- 
ing him. Oscar came to the feast ; the quarrel Happened ; the 
followers of both fought, and Cairbar and Oscar fell by mutual 
wounds. The noise of the battle reached Fingal's army. The 
king came on to the rehef of Oscar, and the Irish fell back to the 
army of Cathmor, who was advanced to the banks of the river 
Lubar, on the heath of Moi-lena. Fingal, after mourning over 
his grandson, ordered UUin, the chief of his bards, to carry hia 
body to Morven, to be there interred. Night coming on, Althan, 
the son of Conacliar, relates to the king the particulars of the 
murder of Cormac. Fillan, the son of Fingal, is sent to observe 
the motions of Cathmor, by night, which concludes the action 
of the first day. The scene of this book is a plain, near the hill of 
Mora, which rose on the borders of the heath of Moi-lena in Ulster 

The blue waves of Erin roll in light. The moun- 
tains are covered with day. Trees shake their dusky 
heads in the breeze. Gray torrents pour their noisy 



lOO TllK I'oKMS OF OSSIAN'. 

Streams. Two green hills, with aged oaks, surround a 
narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is there. 
On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear sup- 
ports the king : the red eye of his fear is sad. Cormac 
rises in his soul, with all his ghastly wounds. The gray 
form of the youth appears in darkness. Blood pours 
from his airy side. Cairbar thrice threw his spear on 
earth. Thrice he stroked his beard. His stejjs are 
short. He often stops. He tosses his sinewy arms. 
He is like a cloud in the desert, varying its form to 
every blast. The valleys are sad around, and fear, by 
turns, the shower ! The king at length resumed his 
soul. He took his pointed spear. He turned his eye 
to Moi-lena. The scouts of blue ocean came. They 
came with steps of fear, and often looked behind. 
Cairbar knew that the mighty were near. He called 
his gloomy chiefs. 

The sounding steps of his warriors came. They 
drew at once their swords. There Moruth stood with 
darkened face. Hidalla's long hair sighs in the wind. 
Red-haired Cormar bends on his spear, and rolls his 
sidelong-looking eyes. Wild is the look of Malthos, 
from beneath two shaggy brows. Foldath stands, like 
an oozy rock, that covers its dark sides with foam. 
His spear is like Slimora's fir, that meets the wind of 
heaven. His shield is marked with the strokes of 
battle. His red eye despises danger. These, and a 
thousand other chiefs, surrounded the king of Erin, 
when the scout of ocean came, Mor-annal, from streamy 
Moi-lena. His eyes hang forward from his fac(^ His 
lips are trembling pale ! 

" Do the chiefs of Erin stand," he said, " silent ns 
the grove of evening ? Stand they, like a silent wood, 
and Fingal on the coast ? Fingal, who is terrible in 
battle, the king of streamy Morven !" " Hast thou 
seen the warrior '^" said Cairbar with a sigli. " Arc 



TEMORA. 401 

his heroes many on the coast ? Lifts he the spear of 
battle ? or comes the king in peace ?" " In peace he 
comes not, king of Erin ; I have seen his forward 
spear.* It is a meteor of death. The blood of thou- 
sands is on its steel. He came first to the shore, strong 
in the gray hair of age. Full rose his sinewy limbs, 
as he strode in his might. That sword is by his side, 
which gives no second wound. His shield is terrible, 
like the bloody moon, ascending through a storm. Then 
came Ossian, king of songs. Then Morni's son, the 
first of men. Connal leaps forward on his spear. 
Dormid spreads his dark-brown locks. Fillan bends 
his bow, the young hunter of streamy Moruth. But 
who is that before them, like the terrible course of a 
stream ? It is the son of Ossian, bright between his 
locks ! His long hair falls on his back. His dark 
brows are half enclosed in steel. His sword hangs 
loose on his side. His spear glitters as he moves. I 
fled from his terrible eyes, king of high Temora !" 

" Then fly, thou feeble man," said Foldath's gloomy 
wrath. '' Fly to the gray streams of tliy land, son of 
the little soul ! Have not I seen that Oscar ? I beheld 
the chief in war. He is of tlie mighty in danger : but 
there are others who lift the spear. Erin has many 
sons as brave, king of Temora of groves. Let Foldath 
meet him in his strength. Let me stop tliis mighty 
stream. My spear is covered with blood, My shield 
is like the wall of Tura !" 

"Shall Foldath alone meet the foe ' '" rcf)licd the 
dark-browed Malthos ? "Are they not on our coast, 

* Mor-annal here alludes to the paiticiilar appearance olFinpil's 
epear. If a maa upon his first landnig in a strange country, kfpt 
the point ot his spear forward, it denoted, in thooe daj's, tJial he 
came in a hostile manner, and accordingly he was treated as an 
enemy ; if he kept the point hehind him, it ^vas a token of friend- 
Bhip, and he was immeaiately invited to flic fea^-t. according to the 
hospitality of the times. 

84* 



402 THE POEMS OF OSSIAK. 

like the wator?? of many streams ? Are not tliese the 
chiefs who vanquished Svvaran, when the sons of green 
Erin fled ? Shall Foldath meet their bravest hero ? 
Foldath of the heart of pride ! Take the strength of 
the people ! and let Malthos come. My sword is red 
with slaughter, but who has heard my words ?" 

" Sons of green Erin/' said Hidalla, " let not Fingal 
hear your words. The foe might rejoice, and his arm 
be strong in the land. Ye are brave, O warriors ! Ye 
are tempests in war. Ye are like storms, which meet 
the rocks without fear, and overturn the woods ! But 
let us move in our strength, slow as a gathered cloud ! 
Then shall the mighty tremble ; the spear shall fall 
iVom the hand of the valiant. We see the cloud of 
death, they will say, while shadows fly over their face. 
Fingal will mourn in his age. He shall behold his 
flying fame. The steps of his chiefs will cease in 
Morven. The moss of years shall grow in Selma !" 

Cairbar heard their words in silence, like the cloud 
of a shower : it stands dark on Cromla, till the light- 
ning bursts its side. The valley gleams with hcavcn'.s 
flame ; the spirits of the storm rejoice. So stood the 
silent king of Temora ; at length his words broke 
forth. " Spread the feast on Moi-lena. Let my hun- 
dred bards attend. Thou red-haired 011a, take the 
harp of the king. Go to Oscar, chief of swords. Bid 
Oscar to our joy. To-day we feast and hear the song ; 
to-morrow break the spears ! Tell him that I have 
raised the tomb of Cathol ; that bards gave his friend 
to the winds. Tell him that Cairbar has heard of his 
fame, at the stream of resounding Carun. Cathmor, 
my brother, is not here. He is not here with his thou- 
sands, and our arms are weak. Cathmor is a foe to 
strife at the feast ! His soul is bright as that sun ! But 
Cairbar must fight with Oscar, chiefs of woody Temora ! 
His words for Cathol were many ! the wrath of Cairbar 



TEMORA. 403 

burns ! He shall fall on Moi-lena. My fame shall rise 
in blood !" 

Their faces brightened round with joy. Th^y spread 
over Moi-lena. The feast of shells is prepared. The 
songs of bards arise. The chiefs of Selma heard their 
joy. We thought that mighty Cathmor came. Cath- 
mor, the friend of strangers ! the brother of red-hnired 
Cairbar. Their souls were not the same. The light 
of heaven was in the bosom of Cathmor. His towers 
rose on the banks of Atha : seven paths led to his halls. 
Seven chiefs stood on the paths, and called the stranger 
to the feast ! But Cathmor dwelt in the wood, to shun 
the voice of praise ! 

OUa came with his songs. Oscar went to Cairbar's 
feast. Three hundred warriors strode along Moi-lena 
of the streams. The gray dogs bounded on the heath : 
their howling reached afar. Fingal saw the departing 
hero. The soul of the king was sad. He dreaded 
Cairbar's gloomy thoughts, amidst the feast of shells. 
My son raised high the spear of Cormac. A hundred 
bards met him with songs. Cairbar concealed, with 
smiles, the death that was dark in his soul. The feast 
is spread. The shells resound. Joy brightens the 
face of the host. But it was like the parting beam of 
the sun, when he is to hide his red head in a storm ! 

Cairbar rises in his arms. Darkness gathers on his 
brow. The hundred harps cease at once. The clang 
of shields* is heard. Far distant on the heath OUa 
raised a song of wo. My son knew the sign of 
death ; and rising seized his spear. " Oscar," said the 
dark-red Cairbar, '• I behold the spear of Erin. The 
spear of Temo.-a glitters in thy hand, son of woody 

* When a chief was determined to kill a person already in his 
power, it was usual to signify that his death was intended, by the 
sound of a shield struck with the blunt end of a spear : at the same 
Ume that a bard at a distance raised the death-song 



404 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Morven ! It was the pride of a hundred kings. The 
death of heroes of old. Yield it, son of Ossian, yield 
it to car-borne Cairbar !" 

" Shall I yield," Oscar replied, " the gift of Erin's 
injured king ; the gift of fair-haired Cormac, when 
Oscar scattered his foes ? I came to Cormac's halls 
of joy, when Swaran fled from Fingal. Gladness rose 
in the face of youth. He gave the spear of Temora. 
Nor did he give it to the feeble : neither to the weak 
in soul. The darkness of thy face is no storm to me : 
nor are thine eyes the flame of death. Do I fear thy 
clangino; shield ? Tremble I at Olla's song ? No : 
Cairbar, frighten the feeble ; Oscar is a rock !" 

" Wilt thou not yield the spear ?" replied the rising 
pride of Cairbar. " Are thy words so mighty, because 
Fingal is near ? Fingal with aged locks, from Mor- 
ven's hundred groves ! He has fought with little men. 
But he must vanish before Cairbar, like a thin pillar (,{ 
mist before the winds of Atha !" — "Were he wiu 
fought with little men, near Atha's haughty chief, Atha's 
chief would yield green Erin to avoid his rage ! Speak 
not of the mighty, O Cairbar ! Turn thy sword on 
me. Our strength is equal : but Fingal is renowned ! 
the first of mortal men !" 

Their people saw the darkening chiefs. Their crowd- 
ing steps are heard. Their eyes roll in fire. A thou- 
sand swords are half unsheathed. Red-haired 011a 
raised the song of battle. The trembling joy of Oscar's 
soul arose : the wonted joy of his soul when Fingal's 
horn was heard. Dark as the swelling wave of ocean 
before the rising winds, when it bends its head near 
tlie coast, came on the host of Cairbar ! 

Daughter of Toscar ! why that tear ? He is not 
fallen yet. Many were the deaths of his arm oeforo 
my hero fell ! 

Behold they fall before my son, like groves in the 



TEMORA. 405 

desert ; when an angry ghost rushes through night, and 
takes their green heads in his hand ! Morlath falls. 
Maronnan dies. Conacliar trembles in his blood I 
Cairbar shrinks before Oscar's sword ! He creeps in 
darkness behind a stone. He lifts the spear in secret ; 
he pierces my Oscar's side ! He falls forward on his 
shield, his knee sustains the chief. But still his spear 
is in his hand ! See, giooiny Cairbar falls! The steel 
pierced liis forehead, and divided his red hair behind. 
He lay lik(3 a shattered rock, which Cromla shakes 
from its shaggy side, when the green valleyed Erin 
shakes its mountains from sea to sea ! 

But never more shall Oscar rise ! He leans on his 
bossy shield. His spear is in bis terrible hand. Erin's 
sons stand distant and dark. Their shouts arise, like 
crowded streams. Moi-lena echoes wide. Fingal 
heard the sound. He took the spear of Selma. His 
steps are before us on the heath. He spoke the words 
of wo. *' I hear the noise of war. Yoing Oscar is 
alone. Rise, sons of Morven : join the hero's sword !" 

Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded over 
Moi-lena. Fingal strode in his strength. The light 
of his shield is terrible. The sons of Erin saw it far 
distant. They trembled in their souls. They knew 
that the wrath of the king arose : and they foresaw 
their death. We first arrived. We fought. Erin's 
chiefs withstood our rage. But when the king came, 
in the sound of his course, what heart of steel could 
stand 1 Erin fled over Moi-lena. Death pursued their 
flight. We saw Oscar on his shield. We saw his 
blood around. Silen-ce darkened on every face. Each 
turned his back and wept. The king strove to hide 
his tears. His gray beard whistled in the wind. He 
bonds his head above the chief. His words are mixed 
with sighs. 

" Art thou fallen, Oscar ! in the midst of thy 



406 THE POEMS OF OSSIAiv. 

course 1 the heart of the aged beats over thee ! IIo 
sees thy coming wars ! The wars which ought to 
come he sees ! They are cut off from thy fame ! When 
shall joy dwell at Selma ? When shall grief depart from 
Morven ? My sons fall by degrees : Fingal is the last 
of his race. My fame begins to pass away. Mine 
age will be without friends. I shall sit a gray cloud 
in my hall. I shall not hear the return of a son, in his 
sounding arms. Weep, ye heroes of Morven ! never 
more shall Oscar rise !" 

And they did weep, O Fingal ! Dear was the hero 
to their souls. He went out to battle, and the foes 
vanished. He returned in peace, amidst their joy. No 
father mourned his son slain in j^^outh : no brother his 
brother of love. They fell without tears, for the chief 
of the people is low ! Bran is howling at his feet : 
gloomy Luath is sad ; for he had often led them to the 
chase ; to the bounding roe of the desert ! 

When Oscar saw his friends around, his heaving 
breast arose. " The groans," he said, " of aged chiefs ; 
the howling of ni}'- dogs ; the sudden bursts of the song 
of grief, have melted Oscar's soul. My soul, that 
never melted before. It was like the steel of my sword. 
Ossian, carry me to my hills ! Raise the stones of my 
renown. Place the horn of a deer : place my sword 
by my side. The torrent hereafter may raise the earth ; 
the hunter may find the steel, and say, < This has been 
Oscar's sword, the pride of other years !' " " Fallest 
thou, son of my fame ? shall I never see thee, Oscar ? 
When others hear of their sons, slmll I not hear of 
thee ? The moss is on thy four gray stones. The 
mournful wind is there. The battle shall be fought 
without thee. Thou shalt not pursue the dark-brown 
hinds. When the warrior returns from battles, and 
tells of other lands ; ' 1 have seen a tomb,' he will 
say, ' by the roaring stream, the dark dwelling of a 



TEMORA. 407 

chief. He fell by car-borne Oscar, the first of mortal 
men.' I, perhaps, shall hear his voice. A beam of 
joy will rise in my soul." 

Night would have descended in sorrow, and morn- 
ing returned in the shadow of grief. Our chiefs would 
have stood, like cold-dropping rocks on Moi-lena, and 
have forgot the war ; did not the king disperse his grief, 
and raise his mighty voice. The chiefs, as new- wakened 
fj'om dreams, lift up their lieads around. 

" How long on Moi-lena shall we weep 1 How long 
j)uur in Erin our tears ? The mighty will not return. 
Oscar shall not rise in his strength. The valiant must 
fall in their day, and be no more known on their hills. 
Where are our fcjthers, O warriors ! the chiefs of the 
times of old ? They have set, like stars that have 
shone. We only hear the sound of their praise. 
But they were renowned in their years : the terror of 
other times. Thus shall we pass away, in the day of 
o*i* fall. Then let us be renowned when we may ; and 
leave our fame behind us, like the last beams of the 
sun, when he hides his red head in the west. The 
traveller mourns his absence, thinking of the flame of 
his beams. Ullin, my aged bard ! take thou the ship 
of the king. Carry Oscar to Selma of harps. Let 
the daughters of Morven weep. We must fight in 
Erin, for the race of fallen Cormac. The days of my 
years begin to fail. I feel the weakness of my arm. 
My fathers bend from their clouds, to receive their 
gray-haired son. But before I go hence, one beam of 
fame shall rise. My days shall end, as my years be- 
gar, in fame. My life shall be one stream of light to 
bards of other times !" 

Ullin raised his white sails. The wind of the south 
came forth. He bounded on the waves towards Selma. 
I remained in my grief, but my words were not heard. 
The feast is spread on Moi-lena. A hundred heroes 



408 THE roEMt; or ossiak. 

reared the tomb of Cairbar. No song is raised over 
the chief. His soul has been dark and bloody. The 
bards remembered the fall of Cormac ! what could they 
say in Cairbar's praise 1 

Night came rolling down. The light of a hundred 
oaks arose. Fingal sat beneath a tree. Old Althan 
stood in the midst. He told tlie tale of fallen Cormac. 
Althan the son of Conachar, the friend of car-borne 
CiiihuUin. He dwelt with Cormac in windy Temora, 
when Semo's son fell at Lego's stream. The tale of 
Althan was moui-nful. The tear was in his eye when 
he spoko. 

• '" The setting slui was yellow on Dora. Gray even 
iuo; bcijan to descend. Temora's woods shook with 
the blast of the inconstant wind.^ A cloud gathered in 
the west. A. rod star looked from behind its edge. 1 
slood in the wood alone. I saw a ghost on the dark- 
cning air ! His stride extended from hill to hill. His 
shield was dim on his side. It was the son of Semo 
1 knew the warrior's face. But he passed away in hia 
blast ; and all was dark around ! My soul was sad. 1 
went to the hall of shells. A thousand lights arose. 
The hundred bards had strung the harp. Cormac 
stood in the midst, like the morning star, when it re- 
joices on the eastern hill, and its young beams are 
bathed in showers. Bright and silent is its progress 
aloft, but the cloud that shall hide it is near ! The 
sword of Artho was in the hand of the king. He 
looked with joy on its polished studs j thrice he at= 
tempted to draw it, and thrice he failed ; his yellow 
locks are spread on his shoulders! his cheeks of youth 
are red. I mourned over the beam of youth, for he 
was soon to set ! 

" ' Althan !' he said with a smile, ' didst thou behold 
my father ? Heavy is the sword of the king ; surely 
his arm was strong. that 1 were like him in battle, 



TEMORA. 409 

when the rage of his wrath arose ! then would I have 
met, with CuthuUin, the car-borne son of Cantela ! But 
years may come on, O Althan ! and my arm be strong. 
Hast thou heard of Sem.o's son, the ruler of high Te- 
mora ? He might have returned with his fame. He 
promised to return to-night. My bards wait him with 
songs. My feast is spread in the hall of kings.' 

" 1 heard Cormac in silence. My tears began to 
flow. I hid them with my aged locks. The king per- 
ceived my grief. ' Son of Conachar !' he said, ' is the 
son of Semo low ? Why bursts the sigh in secret ? 
Why descends the tear ? Comes the car-borne Tor- 
lath ? Comes the sounds of red-haired Cairbar ? They 
come ! for I behold thy grief. Mossy Tura's chief is 
low ! Shall I not rush to battle ? But I cannot lift the 
spear ! O had mine arm the strength of Cuthullin, 
soon would Cairbar fly ; the fame of my fathers would 
be renewed ; and the deeds of other times !' 

" He took his bow. The tears flow down from both 
his sparkling eyes. Grief saddens round. The bards 
bend forward, from their hundred harps. The lone 
blast touched their trembling strings. The sound* is 
sad and low ! a voice is heard at a distance, as of one 
in grief. It was Carril of other times, who came from 
dark Slimora. He told of the fall of Cuthullin. He 
told of his mighty deeds. The people were scattered 
round his tomb. Their arms lay on the ground. 
They had forgot the war, for he their sire, was seen 
no more ! 

" ' But who,' said the soft- voiced Carril, ' who come 
like bounding roes ? Their stature is like young trees 
in the valley, growing in a shower ! Soft and ruddy 
aie their cheeks ! Fearless souls look forth from their 

* That prophetic sound, mentioned in other poeina, which the 
harps of the bards emitted before the death of a person worthy 
and renowned. 

35 



410 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

eyes ? Who but the sods of Usnoth, chief of streamy 
Etha ? The people rise on every side, like the strength 
of an hn.lf-cxtinguished fire, when the winds come, sud- 
den, from the desert, on their rustUng wings. Sudden 
glows the dark brow of the hill ; the passing mariner 
lags, on his winds. The sound of Caitlibat's shield 
was heard. The warriors saw Cuthullin in Nathos. 
So rolled his sparkling eyes ! his steps were such on 
the heath. Battles arc fought at Lego. The swoi-d 
of Nathos prevails. Soon shaltthou behold him in thy 
halls, king of Temora of groves 1' 

" 'Soon may I behold the chief!' replied tlie bkie. 
eyed king. ' But my soul is sad for Cuthullin. His 
voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have we moved, 
on Dora, to the chase of the dark-brown hinds. His 
bow was unerring on the hills. He spoke of mighty 
men. He told of the deeds of my fathers. I felt my 
rising joy. But sit thou at thy feast, O Carril ! I have 
often heard thy voice. Sing in praise of Cuthullin. 
Sing of Nathos of Etha V 

" Day rose on Temora, with all the beams of the east. 
Crathin came to the hall, the son of old Gellama. ' 1 
behold,' he said, ' a cloud in the desert, king of Erin ! 
a cloud it seemed at first, but now a crowd of men ! 
One strides before them in his strength. His red hair 
flies in the wind. His shield glitters to the beam of 
the east. His spear is in his hand.' — 'Call him to 
the feast of Temora,' replied the brightening king. 
* My hall is in the house of strangers, son of generous 
Gellama ! It is perhaps the chief of Etha, coming in 
all his renown. Hail, mighty stranger ! art thou of 
the friends of Cormac 1 But, Carril, he is dark and un- 
lovely. He draws his sword. Is that the son of Us- 
noth, bard of the times of old V 

" ' It is not the son of Usnoth !' said Carril. ' It is 
(^irbar, thy foe.' 'Why comest thou in thy arms to 



TEMORA . 41jl 

Temora ? chief of the gloomy brow. Let not thy 
sword rise against Cormac ! Whither dost thou turn 
thy speed V He passed on in darkness. He seized the 
hand of the king. Cormac foresaw his death ; the rage 
of his eyes arose. ' Retire, thou chief of Atha! Nathos 
comes with war. Thou art bold in Cormac's hall, for 
[lis arm is weak.' The sword entered the side of the 
king. He fell in the halls of his father. His fair hair 
is in the dust. His blood is smoking round. 

'• ' Art tliou fallen in thy halls?' said Carril, 'O son 
of noble Artho ! The shield of Cuthullin was not near. 
Nor the spear of thy father. Mournful are the moun- 
tains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low ! Blest 
be thy soul, O Cormac ! Thou art darkened in thy 
youth !' " 

" His words came to the ears of Cairbar. He closed 
us in the midst of darkness. He feared to stretch his 
sword to the bards, though his soul was dark. Long 
we pined alone ! At length the noble Cathmor came. 
He heard our voice from the cave. He turned the eye 
of his wrath on Cairbar. 

" ' Brother of Cathmor,' he said, 'how long wilt thou 
pain my soul ? Thy heart is a rock. Thy thoughts 
are dark and bloody ! But thou art the brother of Cath- 
mor ; and Cathmor shall shine in thy war. But my 
soul is not like thine ; thou feeble hand in fight ! The 
light of my bosom is stained with thy deeds. Bards 
will not sing of my renown ; they may say, " Cathmor 
was brave, but he fought for gloomy Cairbar." They 
will pass over my tomb in silence. My fame shall not 
be heard. Cairbar! loose the bards. They are the 
sons of future timies. Their voice shall be heard in 
other years; after the kings of Temora have failed. 
We came forth at the words of the chief. We saw 
him in his strength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal ! 
when thou first didst lift the spear. His face was like 



412 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

the plain of the sun, when it is bright. No darkness 
travelled over his brow. But he came with his thou- 
sands to aid the red-haired Cairbar. Now he comes 
to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven !' 

" Let Cathmor come," replied the king, " I love a 
foe so great. His soul is bright. His arm is strong. 
His battles are full of fame. But the little soul is a 
vapor that hovers round the marshy lake. It never 
rises on the green hill, lest the winds should meet it 
there. Its dwelling is in the cave : it sends forth the 
dirt of death ! Our young heroes, O warriors! are like 
the renown of our fathers. They fight in youth. They 
fall. Their names are in sono;. Finojal is amid his 
darl;ening years. He must not fall, as an aged oak, 
across a secret stream. Near it are the steps of the 
hunter, as it lies beneath the wind. ' How has that 
tree fallen V he says, and, whistling, strides along. 
Raise the song of joy, ye bards of Morven ! Let our 
souls forget the past. The red stars look on us from 
the clouds, and silently descend. Soon shall the gray 
beam of the morning rise, and show us the foes of Cor- 
mac. Fillan ! my son, take thou the spear of the king. 
Go to Mora's dark-brown side. Let thine eyes travel 
over the heath. Observe the foes of Fiugal ; observe 
the course of generous Cathmor. I hear a distant 
sound, like falling rocks in the desert. But strike thou 
thy shield, at times, that they may not come through 
night, and the fame of Morven cease. I begin to be 
alone, my son. I dread the fall of my renown !" 

The voice of bards arose. The king leaned on tlie 
shield of Trenmor. Sleep descended on his eyes. 
His future battles arose in his dreams. The host are 
sleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan observes the foe. 
His steps are on the distant hill. We hear, at times, 
his clanging shield. 



BOOK 11. 

ARGUMENT. 

Tiiw? book opens, we may suppose, about midnight, with a soliJoqiiy 
of Ossian, who had retired iVom the rest of the army, to mourn 
for his son Oscar Upon hearing the noise of Cathmor's army 
approaching, he went to find out his brother Fillan, who kept the 
watch on the hill of Mora, in the front of Fingal's army. In the 
conversation of the brothers, the episode of Conar, the son of 
Trenmor, who was the first king of Ireland, is introduced, which 
lays open the origin of the contests between the Gael and the Fir- 
bolg, tne two nations who first possessed themselves of that island. 
Ossian kindles a fire on Mora: upon which Cathmor desisted 
from the design he had formed of surprising the army of the Cale- 
donians. He' calls a council of his chiefs: reprimands Foldath 
for advising a night attack, as the Irish were so much superior in 
number tolhe enemy. The bard Fonar introduces the story of 
Crothar, the ancestor of the king, which throws further hght on 
the history of Ireland, and the original pretensions of the family 
of Atha to the throne of that kingdom. The Irish chiefs he down 
to rest, and Cathmor himself undertakes the watch. In his cir- 
cuit round the army he is met by Ossian. The interview of the 
two heroes is described. Cathmor obtains a promise from Ossian 
to order a funeral elegy to be sung over the grave of Cairbar: it 
being the opinion of the times, that the souls of the dead could 
not be happy till their elegies were sun^ by a bard. Morning 
comes. Cathmor and Ossian part ; and the latter, casually meet- 
ing with Carril the son of Kinfena, sends that bard, with a funeral 
song, to the tomb of Cairbar. 

Father of heroes ! O Trenmor ! High dweller of 
eddying winds ! where the dark-red thunder marks the 
troubled clouds ! Open thou thy stormy halls. Let the 
bards of old be near. Let them draw near with songa 
and their half viewless harps. No dweller of misty 
valley comes ! No hunter unknown at his streams ! 
It is the car-borne Oscar, from the field of war. Sud- 
den is thy change, my son, from what thou wert on 
dark Moi-lena ! The blast folds thee in its skirt, and 
rustles through the sky ! Dost thou not behold thy fa- 
ther, at the stream of night ? The chiefs of Morven 
sleep far distant. They have lost no son ! But ye have 
35* 



414 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

lost a hero, chiefs of resounding Morvcn ! Who could 
equal his strength, when battle rolled against his side, 
like the darkness of crowded waters ? Why this cloud 
on Ossian's soul ? It ought to burn in danger. Erin 
is near with her host. The king of Selma is alone. 
Alone thou shalt not be, my father, while 1 can lift the 
spear ! 

I rose in all my arms. I rose and listened to the 
wind. The shield of Fillan is not heard. I tremble 
for the son of Fingal. " Why should the foe come by 
night ? Why should the dark-haired warrior fall ?" 
Distant, sullen murmurs rise ; like the noise of the lake 
of Lego, when its waters shrink, in the days of frost, 
and all its bursting ice resounds. The people of Lara 
look to heaven, and foresee the storm ! My steps are 
forward on the heath. The spear of Oscar is in my 
hand ? Red stars looked from high. I gleamed along 
the night. 

I saw Fillan silent before me, bending forward from 
Mora's rock. He heard the shout of the foe. The 
joy of his soul arose. He heard my sounding tread, 
and turned his lifted spear. " Comest thou, son of 
night, in peace ? Or dost thou meet my wrath ? The 
foes of Fingal are mine. Speak, or fear my steel. I 
stand not, in vain, the shield of Morven's race." 
'• Never mayest thou stand in vain, son of blue-eyed 
Clatho ! Fingal begins to be alone. Darkness gathers 
on the last of his days. Yet he has two sons who 
ought to shine in war. Who ought to be two beams 
of light, near the steps of his departure." 

"Son Ox Fingal," replied the youth, y- it is not long 
since 1 raised the spear. Few are the marks of my 
s\TOrd in war. But Fillan's soul is fire ! The chiefs 
of Bolga* crowd around the shield of generous Cath- 

♦ The southern parts of Ireland went, for bome time, under the 



TEilORA. 415 

mor. Their gathering is on the hcaih. Shall my steps 
approach their host ? I yielded to Oscar alone in the 
strife of the race of Cona!'' 

" Fillan, thou shalt not approach their host ; nor fall 
before thy fame is known. My name is heard in song ; 
when needful, I advance. From the skirts of night I 
shall view them over all their gleaming tribes. Why, 
Fillan, didst thou speak of Oscar ? Why awake my 
sigh ! I must forget the warrior, till the storm is roiled 
away. Sadness ought not to dwell in danger, nor the 
tear in the eye of v/ar. Our fathers forgot their fallen 
sons, till the noise of arms was past. Then sorrow 
returned to the tomb, and the song of bards arose. 
The memory of those who fell quickly followed the 
departure of war : when the tumult of battle is past, 
the soul in silence melts away for the dead. 

'' Conar was the brother of Trathal, first of mortal 
men. His battles were on every coast. A thousand 
streams rolled down the blood of his foes. His fame 
filled green Erin, like a pleasant gale. The nations 
gathered in Uiiin, and they blessed the king ; the king 
of the race of their fathers, from the land of Selma. 

'• The chiefs of the south were gathered, in the dark- 
ness of their pride. In the horrid cave of Moma they 
mixed their secret words. Thither often, they said, 
the spirits of their fathers came ; shovfing their pale 
forms from the chinky rocks ; reminding them of the 
honor of Bolga. ' Why should Conar reign,' they 
said, * the son of resounding Morven V 

" They came forth, like the streams of the desert, 
with the roar of their hundred tribes. Cona was a rock 
before them : broken, they rolled on every side. But 

name of Boiga, ircm the Fir-bolg or Belgte of Britain,_\vho settled 
a colony there " Bolg" signifies a '•' quiver," from which proceeds 
"Fir-bolg," i. e., " bowmen:" so called from (heir using bows more 
than any of the neighboring natiosis. 



416 THE POEMS Of OSSIAN. 

often they returnc:], and the sons of Selma fell. The 
king stood, among the tombs of his warriors. He darkly- 
bent his mournful face. His soul was rolled into itself: 
and he had marked the place where he was to fall : 
when Trathal came, in his strength, his brother from 
cloudy Morven. Nor did he come alone. Colgar was 
at his side : Colgar the son of the king and of white- 
bosomed Solin-corma. 

" As Trenmor, clothed with meteors, descends from 
the halls of thunder, pouring the dark storm before him 
over the troubled sea : so Colgar descended to battle, 
and wasted the echoing field. His father rejoiced over 
the hero : but an arrow came ! His tomb was raised 
without a tear. The king was to revenge his son. 
He lightened forward in battle, til) Bolga yielded at her 
streams ! 

" When peace returned to the land : when his blue 
waves bore the king to Morven : then he remembered 
his son, and poured the silent tear. Thrice did the 
bards, at the cave of Furmono, call the soul of Colgar. 
They called him to the hills of his land. He heard 
them in his mist. Trathal placed his sword in the 
cave, that the spirit of his son might rejoice." 

"Colgar, son of Trathal," said Fillan, "thou wert 
renowned in youth ! but the king hath not marked my 
sword, bright streaming on the field. I go forth jvith 
the crowd. I return without my fame. But the foe 
approaches, Ossian I I hear'their murmur on the heath. 
The sound of their steps is like thunder, in the bosom 
of the ground, when the rocking hills shake their groves, 
and not a blast pours from the darkened sky !" 

Ossian turned sudden on his spear. He raised the 
flame of an oak on high. I spread it large on Mora's 
wind. Cathmor stopt in his course. Gleaming he 
stood, like a rock, on whose sides are the wandering 
blasts ; which seize its echoing streams, and clothe 



TEBIORA. 417 

them with ice. So stood the friend of strangers ! The 
winds lift his heavy locIi:s. Thou art the tallest of the 
race of Erin, king of streamy Atha ! 

" First of bards," said Cathmor, " Fonar, call the 
chiefs of Erin. Call red-haired Cormar : dark-browed 
Malthos : the sidelong-looking gloom of Maronnan. 
Let the pride of Foldath appear. The red-rolling eye 
of Turlotho. Nor let Hidaila be forgot ; his voice, in 
danger, is the sound of a shower, when it falls in the 
blasted vale, near Atha's falling stream. Pleasant is 
its sound on the plain, whilst broken thunder travels 
over the sky !" 

They came in their clanging arms. They bent for- 
ward to his voice, as if a spirit of their fathers spoke 
from a cloud of night. Dreadful shone they to the light ; 
like the fall of the stream of Bruno,* when the meteor 
lights it, before the nightly stranger. Shuddering he 
stops in his journey, and looks up for the beam of the 
morn ! 

" Why delights Foldath," said the king, " to pour 
the blood of foes by night ? Fails his arm in battle, in 
the beams of day ? Few are the foes before us ; why 
should we clothe us in shades ? The valiant delight to 
shine in the battles of their land ! Thy counsel was in 
vain, chief of Moma ! The eyes of Morven do not 
sleep. They are watchful as eagles on their mossy 
rocks. Let each collect beneath his cloud the strength 
of his roaring tribe. To-morrow I move, in light, to 
meet the foes of Bolga ! Mighty was he that is low, the 
race of Borbar-duthul !" 

'' Not unmarked," said Foldath, " were my steps be- 
fore thy race. In light, I met the foes of Cairbar. 
The warrior praised my deeds. But his stone was 

♦ Bruno was a place of worship, (Fing. b. 6.) in Craca, which is 
gupposed to be one of the isles of Shetland. 



418 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

raised without a tear ! No bard sung over Erin's king. 
Shall his foes rejoice along their mossy hills ? No ; 
they must not rejoice ! He was the friend of Foldath ! 
Our words were mixed, in secret, in Moma's silent 
cave; whilst thou, a boy in the field, pursucdst the 
thistle's ^eard. With Moma's sons I shall rush abroad, 
and find the foe on his dusky hills. Fingal shall lie 
without his song, the gray-haired king of Selma." 

" Dost thou think, thou feeble man," replied Cath- 
mor, half enraged : " Dost thou think Fingal can fall, 
without his fame, in Erin ? Could the bards be silent 
at the tomb of Selma's king ; the song would burst in 
secret ! the spirit of the king would rejoice ! It is 
when thou shaltfall, that the bard shall forget the song. 
Thou art dark, chief of Moma, though thine arm is a 
tempest in war. Do I forget the king of Erin, in his 
narrow house ? My soul is not lost to Cairbar, the 
brother of my love ! I marked the bright beams of joy 
which travelled over his cloudy mind, when I returned, 
with fame, to Atha of the streams." 

Tall they removed, beneath the words of the king. 
Each to his own dark tribe ; where, humming, they 
rolled on the heath, faint-glittering to the stars : like 
waves in a rocky bay, before the nightly wind. Be- 
neath an oak lay the chief of Atha. His shield, a 
dusky round, hung high. Near him, against a rock, 
leaned the fair stranger* of Inis-huna : that beam of 
light, with wandering locks, from Lumon of the roes. 
At a distance rose the voice of Fonar, with the deeds 
of the days of old. The song fails, at times, in Lubar's 
growing roar. 

" Crothar," began the bard, " first dwelt at Atha's 
mossy stream ! A thousand oaks, from the mountains, 
formed his echoing hall. The gathering of the people 

♦ By " the stranger of Inis-hana," is meant Sull-malla.— B. iv- 



TEI'.IORA. 419 

svas iherc, around the feast of the bluc-eycd kino-. But 
who, among his chiefs, was hke the stately Crothar ? 
Warriors kindled in his presence. The young sigh of 
the virgins rose. In Alnecma* was the warrior hon- 
ored : the first of the race of Bolga. 

" He pursued the chase in Ullin : on the moss-cover- 
ed top of Drumardo. From the wood looked the 
daugliter of Cathmin, the blue-rolling eye of Con-lama. 
Her sigh rose in secret. She bent her head, amidst 
hoA' v/andering locks. The moon looked in, at night, 
and saw the white tossing of her arms ; for she thought 
of the mighty Crothar in the season of dreams. 

<' Three days feasted Crothar with Cathmin. On 
the fourth they awaked the hinds. Con-lama moved 
to the chase, with all her lovely steps. She met Cro- 
thar in the narrov/ path. The bow fell at once from 
her hand. She turned her face away, and half hid it 
with her locks. The love of Crothar rose. He brought 
the white-bosomed maid to Atha. Bards raised the 
song in her presence. Joy dwelt round the daughter 
of Cathmin. 

" The pride of Turloch rose, a youth w^ho loved the 
white-handed Con-lama. He came, with battle, to Al- 
necma ; to Atha of the roes. Cormul went forth to 
the strife, the brother of car-borne Crothar. He w^ent 
forth, but he fell. The sigh of his people rose. Silent 
and tall across the stream, came the darkening strength 
of Crothar : he rolled the foe from Alnecma. He re- 
turned midst the joy of Con-lama. 

" Battle on battle comes. Blood is poured on blood. 
The tombs of the valiant rise. Eiin's clouds are hung 
round with ghosts. The chiefs of the South gathered 
round the echoing shield of Crothar. He came, with 
death to the paths of the foe. The virgins wept, by 

♦ Alnecma, or Alnecmacht, was the ancient name of Conjiai\rl'.t, 
Ullin is still the hish name of the province of Ulster. 



420 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAK. 

the streams of Ullin. They looked the mist of the 
hill : no hunter descended from its folds. Silence 
darkened in the land. Blasts sighed lonely on grassy- 
tombs. 

" Descending like the eagle of heavenj with all his 
rustling winds, when he forsakes the blast with joy. the 
son of Trenmor came ; Conar, arm of death, from 
Morven of the groves. He poured his might along 
green Erin. Death dimly strode behind his swori. 
The sons of Bolga fled from his course, as from a 
stream, that, bursting from the stormy desert, rolls the 
fields together, with all their echoing woods. Crothar 
met him in battle : but Alnccma's warriors fled. The 
king of Atha slowly retired, in the grief of his soul. He 
afterward shone in the south ; but dim as the sun of 
autumn, when he visits, in his robes of mist, Lara of 
dark streams. The withered grass is covered with 
dew ; the field, though bright, is sad." 

'' Why wakes the bard before me," said Cathmor, 
" the memory of those who fled ? Has some ghost, 
from his dusky cloud, bent forward to thine ear ; to 
frighten Cathmor from the field, with the tales of old ? 
Dwellers of the skirts of night, your voice is but a blast 
to me ; which takes the gray thistle's head, and strews 
its beard on streams. Within my bosom is a voice. 
Others hear it not. His soul forbids the king of Erin 
to shrink back from war." 

Abashed, the bard sinks back on night ; retired, he 
bends above a stream. His thoughts are on the days 
of Atha, when Cathmor heard his song with joy. His 
tears came rolling down. The winds are in his beard. 
Erin sleeps around. No sleep comes down on Cath- 
mor's eyes. Dark, in his soul, he saw the spirit of 
low-.aid "Cairbar. He saw him, without his song, roll- 
ed in a blast of night. He rose. His steps were 
round the host. He struck, at times, his echoing 



TEMOKA. 421 

shield. The sound reached Ossian's ear on Mora's 
mossy brow. 

"Fillan," I said, "the foes advance. I hear the 
shield of war. Stand thou in the narrow path. Os- 
sian shall mark their course. If over my fall the host 
should pour ; then be thy buckler heard. Awake the 
king on his heath, lest his fame should fly away." I 
strode in all my rattling arms ; wide bounding over a 
stream that darkly winded in the field, before the king 
of Atha. Green Atha's king with lifted spear, came 
forward on my course. Now would we have mixed in 
horrid fray, like two contending ghosts, that bending 
forward from two clouds, send forth the roaring winds ; 
did not Ossian behold, on high, the helmet of Erin's 
kings. The eagle's wing spread above it, rustling in 
the breeze. A red star looked through the plumes. I 
stopt the lifted spear. 

" The helmet of kings is before me ! Who art thou, 
son of night ? Shall Ossian's spear be renowned, when 
thou art lowly laid ?" At once he dropt the gleaming 
lance. Growing before me seemed the form. He 
stretched his hand in night. He spoke the words of kings. 

'• Friend of the spirits of heroes, do I meet thee thus 
in shades ? I have wished for thy stately steps in Atha, 
in the days of joy. Why should my spear now arise ? 
The sun must behold us, Ossian, when we bend, gleam- 
ing in the strife. Future warriors shall mark the place, 
and shuddering think of other years. They shall mark 
it, like the haunt of ghosts, pleasant and dreadful to the 
soul." 

" Shall it then be forgot," T said, " where we meet 
in peace ? Is the remembrance of battles always 
pleasant to the soul ? Do not we behold, with joy, the 
place where our fathers feasted ? But our eyes are 
full of tears, on the fields of their war. This stone 
shall rise with all its moss and speak to other years. 
36 



422 THE FOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

' Here Cathmor and Ossian met ; the warriors met in 
peace !' When thou, O stone, shalt fail : when Lubar'a 
otream shall roll away ; then shall the traveller come, 
and bend here, perhaps, in rest. When the darkened 
moon is rolled over his head, our shadowy forms may 
come, and, mixing with his dreams, remind him of his 
place. But why turncst thou so dark away, son of 
Borbar-duthul V 

" Not forgot, son of Fingal, shall we ascend these 
winds. Our deeds are streams of light, before the 
eyes of bards. But darkness is rolled on Atha : the 
king is low without his song ; still there was a beam 
towards Cathmor, from his stormy soul ; like the moon 
in a cloud, amidst the dark-red course of thunder." 

" Son of Erin," I replied, " my wrath dwells not in 
his earth. My hatred flies on eagle wings, from the 
foe that is low. He shall hear the song of bards. 
Cairbar shall rejoice on his winds." 

Cathmor 's swelling soul arose. He took the dagger 
from his side, and placed it gleaming in my hand. 
He placed it in my hand, with sighs, and silent strode 
away. Mine eyes followed his departure. He dimly 
gleamed, like the form of a ghost, which meets a trav- 
eller by night, on the dark-skirted heath. His words 
are dark, like songs of old : with morning strides the 
unfinished shade away ! 

Who comes from Luba's vale ? from the skirts of 
the morning mist ? The drops of heaven are on his 
head. His steps are in the paths of the sad. It is 
Carril of other times. He comes from Tura's silent 
cave. I behold it dark in the rock, through the thin 
folds of mist. There, perhaps, Cuthullin sits, on the 
blast which bends its trees. Pleasant is the song of 
the morning from the bard of Erin. 

" The waves crowd away," said Carril. " They 
crowd away for fear. They hear the sound of thy 



TEMORA. 423 

coming forth, sun ! Terrible is thy beauty, son of 
heaven, when death is descending on thy locks : when 
thou roll est thy vapors before thee, over the blasted 
host. But pleasant is thy beam to the hunter, sitting 
hy the rock in a storm, when thou showest thyself from 
the parted cloud, and brightencst his dewy locks : he 
looks down on the streamy vale, and beholds the de- 
scent of roes ! How long shalt thou rise on war, and 
roll, a bloody shield, tlu'ough heaven? I see the death 
of heroes, dark wandering over thy face !" 

" Why wander the words of Carril ?" I said. " Does 
the son of heaven mourn? He is unstained in his 
course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on, thou care- 
loss light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall. Thy dark- 
ening hour may seize thee, struggling as thou rollest 
through tliy sky. But pleasant is the voice of the bard : 
pleasant to Ossian's soul ! It is like the shower of the 
morning, when it comes through the rustling vale, on 
which the sun looks through mist, just rising from his 
rocks. But this is no tlmQ, O bard ! to sit down, at the 
strife of song. Fingal is in arms on the vale. Thou 
seest the flaming shield of the king. His face darkens 
between his locks. He beholds the wide rolling of 
l^rin. Does not Carril behold that tomb, beside the 
roaring stream ? Three stones lift their gray heads, 
beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly laid! Give 
thou his soul to the wind. He is the brother of Coth- 
mor ! Open his airy hall ! Let thy song be a stream 
of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghost !" 



BOOK III. 



ARGUMENT. 



Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, devolves 
the command on Gaul, the sonof Morni ; it being the custom of 
the times, that the king should not engage, till the necessity of 
aflairs required his superior valor and conduct. The king and 
Ossian retire to the hill of Cormul, which overlooked the field 
of battle. The bards sing the war-song. The general conflict 
is described. Gaul, the son of Morni, distinguishes himself; kills 
Tur-lathon, chief of INIoruth, and other chiefs of lesser name. 
On the other hand, Foldath, who commanded the Irish army 
(for Cathmor, after the example of Finsal, kept himself from bat- 
tle,) fights gallantly ; kills Connal, cliief of Dun-lora, and ad- 
vances to engage Gaul himself Gaul, in the mean time, being 
wounded in the hand, by a random arrow, is covered by Fillan 
the son of Fingal, who performs prodigies of valor. Night comes 
on. The horn of Fingal recalls nis army. The bards meet them, 
with a congratulatory song, in which the praises of Gaul and 
Fillan are particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit down at a 
least ; Fingal misses Connal. The episode of Connal and Duth- 
caron is introduced ; which throws further light on the ancient 
history of Ireland. Carril is despatched to raise the tomb of Con- 
nal. The action of this book takes up the second day from the 
opening of the poem. 

" Who is that at blue-streaming Lubar ? Who, by 
the bending hill of roes ? Tall he leans on an oak 
torn from high, by nightly winds. Who but Comhal's 
son, brightening in the last of his fields ? His gray 
hair is on the breeze. He half unsheaths the sword of 
.T..uno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark 
moving of foes. Dost thou hear the voice of the king? 
[t is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it 
:om.cs, between its echoing rocks, to the blasted field 
)f the sun ! 

" Wide-skirted comes down the foe ! Sons of 
voody Selma, arise ! Be ye like the rocks of our land, 
m whose brown sides are the rolling of streams. A 



TEMORA. 425 

beam of joy comes on my soul. I see the foe mighty 
before me. It is when he is feeble, that the sighs of 
Fingal are heard : lest death should come without re- 
nown, and darkness dwell on his tomb. Who shall 
lead the war, against the host of Alnecma ? It is only 
when danger grows, that my sword shall shine. Sucn 
was the custom, heretofore, of Trenmor the ruler of 
winds ! and thus descended to battle the blue-shielded 
Trathal V' 

The chiefs bend tow^ards the king. Each darkly 
seems to claim the war. They tell, by halves, their 
mighty deeds. They turn their eyes on Erin. But 
far before the rest the son of Morni stands. Silent he 
stands, for who had not heard of the battles of Gaul 1 
They rose within his soul. His hand, in secret, seized 
the sword. The sword which he brought from Stru- 
mon, when the strength of Morni failed. On his spear 
leans Fillan of Selma, in the wandering of his locks. 
Thrice he raises his eyes to Fingal : his voice thrice 
fails him as he speaks. My brother could not boast of 
battles : at once he strides away. Bent over a distant 
stream he stands: the tear hangs in his eye. He 
strikes, at times, the thistle's head, with his inverted 
spear. Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he be- 
holds his son. He beholds him with bursting joy; and 
turns, amid his crowded soul. In silence turns the 
king towards Mora of woods. He hides the big tear 
with his locks. At length his voice is heard. 

" First of the sons of Morni ! Thou rock that de- 
fiest the storm ! Lead thou my battle for the race of 
low-laid Cormac. No boy's staff is thy spear : no 
harmless beam of light thy sword. Son of Morni 
of steeds, behold the foe ! Destroy ! Fillan, observe 
the chief! He is not calm in strife: nor burns he, 
heedless in battle. My son, observe the chief ! He 
is strong as Lubar's stream, but never foams and 
36* 



4<«,6 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

roars. High on cloudy Mora, Fingal shall behold the 
war. Stand, Ossian, near thy father, by the falling 
stream. Raise the voice, O bards ! Selma, move be- 
noath the sound. It is my latter field. Clothe it ovei 
with light." 

As the sudden rising of winds ; or distant rolling of 
troubled seas, when some dark ghost in wrath heaves 
the billows over an isle : an isle the seat of mist on 
the deep, for many dark-brown years ! So terribls is 
the sound of the host, wide moving over the field. 
Gaul is tall before them. The streams glitter within 
his strides. The bards raise the song by his side. 
He strikes his shield between. On the skirts of the 
blast the tuneful voices rise. 

" On Crona," said the bards, " there bursts a stream 
by night. It swells in its own dark course, till morn- 
ing's early beam. Then comes it white from the hill, 
with the rocks and their hundred groves. Far be my 
steps from Crona. Death is tumbling there. Be ye a 
stream from Mora, sons of cloudy Morven ! 

" Who rises, from his car, on Clutha '? The hills are 
troubled before the king ! The dark woods echo round, 
and lighten at his steel. See him amidst the foe, like 
Colgach's sportful ghost : when he scatters the clouds 
and rides the eddying winds ! It is Morni of bounding 
steeds ! Be like thy father, O Gaul ! 

" Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling 
harps. Ten youths bear the oak of the feast. A dis- 
tant sunbeam marks the hill. The dusky waves of the 
blast fly over the fields of grass. Why art thou silent, 
O Selma? The king returns with all his fame. Did 
not the battle roar ? yet peaceful is his brow ! It 
roared, and Fingal overcame. Be like thy father, O 
Fillan !" 

They move beneath the song. High wave their 
arms, as rushy fields beneath autumnal winds. On 



TEMORA. 427 

Mora stands the king in arms. Mist flies round his 
buckler abroad ; as aloft it hung on a bough, on Cor- 
mui's mossy rock. In silence 1 stood by Fingal, and 
turned my eyes on Cromla's wood : lest I should be- 
hold the host, and rush amid my swelling soul. My 
foot is forward on the heath. I glittered, tall in steel : 
like the falling stream of Tromo, which nightly winds 
bind over with ice. The boy sees it on high gleaming 
to the early beam : towards it he turn.s his ear, and 
wonders why it is so silent. 

Nor bent over a stream is Cathmor, like a youth in 
a peaceful field. Wide he drew forward the war, a 
dark and troubled wave. But when he beheld Fingal 
on Mora, his generous pride arose. " Shall the chief 
of Atha fight, and no king in the field ? Foldath, lead 
my people forth, thou art a beam of fire." 

Forth issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud, the robe 
of ghosts. He drew his sword, a flame from his side. 
He bade the battle move. The tribes, like ridgy waves, 
dark pour their strength around. Haughty is liis stride 
before them. His red eye rolls in wrath. He calls 
Cormul, chief of Dun-ratho ; and his words were 
heard. 

'• Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds green 
behind the foe. Place thy people there ; lest Selma 
should escape from my sword. Bards of green- valleyed 
Erin, let no voice of yours arise. The sons of Morven 
must fall without song. They are the foes of Cairbar. 
Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark, thick 
mist, on Lena, where it wanders with their ghosts, 
beside the reedy lake. Never shall they rise, without 
song, to the dwelling of winds." 

dormul darkened as he went. Behind him rushed 
his tribe. They sunk beyond the rock. Gaul spoke 
to Fillan of Selma; as his eye pursued the course of 
the dark-eyed chief of Dun-ratho. " Thou beholdest 



428 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

the steps of Cormul ! Let thine arm be strong ! When 
he is low, son of Fingal, remember Gaul in war. Here 
I fall forward into battle, amid the ridge of shields !" 

The sign of death ascends : the dreadful sound of 
Morni's shield. Gaul pours his voice between. Fin- 
gal rises on Mora. He saw them from wing to wing, 
bending at once in strife. Gleaming on his own dark 
hill, stood Cathmor, of streamy Atha. The kings were 
like two spirits of heaven, standing each on his gloomy 
cloud : when they pour abroad the winds, and lift the 
roaring seas. The blue tumbling of waves is before 
them, marked with the paths of whales. They them- 
selves are calm and bright. The gale lifts slowly their 
locks of mist. 

What beam of light hangs high in air ? What beam 
but Morni's dreadful sword ? Death is strewed on thy 
paths, O Gaul ! Thou foldest them together in thy 
rage. Like a young oak falls Tur-lathon, with l;i.:j 
branches round him. Hishigh-bosomed spouse streteliLo 
her white arms, in dreams, to the returning chief, as 
she sleeps by gurgling Moruth, in her disordered locks. 
It is his ghost, Oichoma. The chief is lowly laid. 
Hearken not to the winds for Tur-lathon's echoing shield. 
It is pierced, by his streams. Its sound is passed away. 

Not peaceful is the hand of Foldath. He winds his 
course in blood. Connal met him in fight. They 
mixed their clanging steel. Why should mine eyes 
behold them ? Connal, thy locks are gray ! Thou 
wert the friend of strangers, at the moss-covered rock 
of Dun-Iora. When the skies were rolled together : 
then thy feast was spread. The stranger heard the 
winds without ; and rejoiced at thy burning oak. Why, 
son of Duth-caron, art thou laid in blood ? the blasted 
tree bends above thee. Thy shield lies broken near. 
Thy blood mixes with the stream, thou breaker of the 
shields ! 



TEMORA. 429 

Ossian took the spear, in his wrath. But Gaul rush- 
ed forward on Foldath. The feeble pass by his side: 
his rage is turned on Moma's chief. Now they had 
raised their death ful spears : unseen an arrow came. 
It pierced the hand of Gaul. His steel fell sounding 
to earth. Young Fillan came, with Cormul's shield ! 
He stretched it large before the chief. Foldath sent 
his shouts abroad, and kindled all the field : as a blast 
that lifts the wide-winged flame over Lumen's echoing 
groves. 

" Son of blue-eyed Clatho," said Gaul, " O Fillan ! 
thou art a beam from heaven ; that, coming on the 
troubled deep, binds up the tempest's wing. Cormul 
is fallen before thee. Early art thou in the fame of 
thy fathers. Rush not too far, my hero. I cannot lift 
the spear to aid. I stand harmless in battle : but my 
voice shall be poured abroad. The sons of Selma shall 
hear, and remember my former deeds." 

His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host bends 
forward in fight. Often had they heard him at >Stru- 
mon, when he called them to the chase of the hinds. 
He stands tall amid the war, as an oak in the skirts of 
a storm, which now is clothed on high, in mist : then 
shows its broad waving head. The musing hunter lifts 
his eye, from his own rushy field ! 

My soul pursues thee, O Fillan ! through the path 
of thy fame. Thou rollest the foe before thee. Now 
Foldath, perhaps, may fly : but night comes down with 
its clouds. Cathmor's horn is heard on high. The 
sons of Selma hear the voice of Fingal, from Mora's 
gathered mist. The bards pour their song, like dew, 
on the returning war. 

" Who comes from Strumon," they said, " amid her 
wandering locks 1 She is mournful in her steps, and 
lifts her blue eyes towards Erin. Why art thou sadj 
Evir-choma ? Who is like thy chief in renown ? He 



430 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

descended dreadful to battle ; lie returns, like a light 
from a cloud. He raised the sword in wrath : they 
shrunk before blue-shielded Gaul ! 

" Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of the 
king. He remembers the battles of old ; the days 
wherein his fathers fought. The days of old returr. 
on Fingal's mind, as he behglds the renown of his son. 
As the sun rejoices, from his cloud, over the tree his 
beams have raised, as it shades its lonely head on the 
heath ; so joyful is the king over Fillan ! 

" As the rolling of thunder on hills, when Lara's 
riel(>3 are still and dark, such are the steps of Selma, 
pleasant and dreadful to tlie ear. They return with 
their sound, like eagles to their dark-browed rock, after 
the prey is torn on the field, the dun sons of the 
bounding hind. Your fathers rejoice from their clouds, 
sons of streamy Selma !" 

Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora of the 
hinds. A flame rose, from a hundred oaks, which 
winds had torn from Cormul's steep. The feast is 
spread in the midst ; around sat the gleaming chiefs. 
Fingal is there in his strength. The eagle wing of his 
helmet sounds. The rustling blasts of the west unequal 
rush through night. Long looks the king in silence 
round ; at length his words are heard. 

" My soul feels a want in our joy. I behold a breach 
among my friends. The head of one tree is low. The 
squally wind pours in on Selma. Where is the chief 
of Dun-lora ? Ought Connal to be forgot at the feast ^ 
When did he forget the stranger, in the midst of his 
echoing hall ? Ye are silent in my presence ! Connal 
is then no more ! Joy meet thee, O warrior ! like a 
stream of light. Swift be thy course to thy fathers, 
along the roaring winds. Ossian, thy soul is fire ; 
kindle the memory of the king. Awake the battles of 
Connal, when first he shone in war. The locks of 



TEMORA. 431 

Connal were gray. His days of youth were mixed 
with mine. In one day Duth-caron first strung our 
bows against the roes of Dun-lora." 

" Many," I said, " are our paths to battle in green- 
vallcyed Erin. Often did our sails arise, over the 
bine tumbling waves ; when we came in other days, 
to aid the race of Cona. The strife roared once in 
Alnecma, at the foam-covered streams of Duth-ula. 
With Cormac descended to battle Duth-caron, from 
cloudy Selnia. Nor descended Duth-caron alone ; his 
son was by his side, the long-haired youth of Connal, 
lifting the first of his spears. Thou didst command 
them, O Fingal ! to aid the king of Erin. 

" Like the bursting strength of ocean, the sons of 
Bolga rushed to war. Colc-ulla was before them, the 
chief of blue stream Atha. The battle was mixed on 
the plain. Cormac shone in his own strife, bright as 
the forms of his fathers. But, far before the rest, Duth- 
caron hewed down the foe. Nor slept the arm of 
Connal by his father's side. Colc-ulla prevailed on the 
plain : like scattered mist fled the people of Cormac. 

" Then rose the sword of Duth-caron, and the steel 
of broad-shielded Connal. They shaded their flying 
friends, like two rocks with their heads of pine. Night 
came down on Duth-ula ; silent strode the chiefs over 
the field. A mountain-stream roared across the path, 
nor could Duth-caron bound over its course. ' Why 
stands my father V said Connal, ' I hear the rushing 
foe.' 

" ' Fly, Connal,' he said. ' Thy father's strength 
begins to fail. I come wounded from battle. Here 
let me rest in night.' ' But thou shalt not remain 
alone,' said Connal's bursting sigh. ' My shield is 
an eagle's wing to cover the king of Dun-lora.' He 
bends dark above his father. The mighty Duth-caron 
dies ! 



432 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

" Day rose, and night returned. No lonely bard 
appeared, deep musing on the heath : and could Con- 
nal leave the tomb of his father, till he should receive 
his fame ? He bent the bow against the roes of Duth- 
ula. He spread the lonely feast. Seven nights he laid 
his head on the tomb, and saw his father in his dreams. 
He saw him rolled, dark in a blast, like the vapor of 
reedy Lego. At length the steps of Colgan camo, the 
bard of high Temora. Duth-caron received his fame, 
and brightened, as he rose on the wind." 

" Pleasant to the ear," said Fingal, " is the praise 
of the kings of men ; when their bows are strong in 
battle ; when they soften at the sight of the sad. Thus 
let my name be renowned, when the bards shall lighten 
my rising soul. Carril, son of Kinfena ! take the bards, 
and raise a tomb. To-night let Connal dwell within 
his narrow house. Let not the soul of the valiant 
wander on the winds. Faint glimmers the moon at 
Moi-lena, through the broad-headed groves of the hill ! 
Raise stones, beneath its beam, to all the fallen in war. 
Though no chiefs were they, yet their hands were 
strong in fight. They were my rock in danger : the 
mountain from which I spread my eagle wings. Thence 
am I renowned. Carril, forget not the low !" 

Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rose the song 
of the tomb. Carril strode before them ; they are ihe 
murmur of streams behind his steps. Silence dwells 
in the vales of Moi-lena, where each, with its own dark 
rill, is winding between the hills. I heard the voice 
of the bards, lessening, as they moved along. I leaned 
forward from my shield, and felt the kindling of my 
soul. Half formed, the words of my song burst forth 
upon the wind. So hears a tree, on the vale, the voice 
of spring around. It pours its green leaves to the sun. 
It shakes its lonely head. The hum of the mountain 



TEMORA. 433 

bee is near it ; the hunter sees it with joy, from the 
blasted heath. 

Young Fillan at a distance stood. His helmet lay 
glittering on the ground. His dark hair is loose to the 
blast. A beam of light is Clatho's son ! He heard 
the words of the king with joy. He leaned forward 
on his spear. 

" My son," said car-borne Fingal, " I saw thy deeds, 
and my soul was glad." " The fame of our fathers," 
I said, " bursts from its gathering cloud. Thou art 
brave, son of Clatho ! but headlong in the strife. So 
did not Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe. 
Let thy people be a ridge behind. They are thy 
strength in the field. Then shalt thou be long renown- 
ed, and behold the tombs of the old. The memory of 
the past returns, my deeds in other years : when first 
I descended from ocean on the green-valleyed isle." 

We bend towards the voice of the king. The moon 
looks abroad from her cloud. The gray-skirted mist 
is near : the dwelling of the ghosts ! 
37 



BOOK IV. 

ARGUMENT. 

The second night continues. Finffal relates, at the least, his own 
first expedition into Ireland, anu his marriage with Ros-cranna, 
the daughter o{ Cormac, king of that island. The Irish chiefs 
convene in the presence of Cathmor. The situation of the king 
described. The story of Sul-malla, the daughter of Conmor, kins 
of Inis-huna, who, in the disguise of a young warrior, hath fol- 
lowed Cathmor to the war. The suhen behavior of Foldath, v.ho 
had commanded m the battle of the preceding day, renews the 
difference between him and Malthos : but Cathmor, interposing, 
ends it. The chiefs feast, and hear the son^ of Fonar the bard. 
Cathmor returns to rest, at a distance iVom the army. The ghost 
of his brother Cairbar appears to him in a dream ; and obscurely 
Ibretells the issue of the war. The soliloquy of the king. lie 
discovers Sul-malla. Morning comes. Her soliloquy close.? the 
book. 

" Beneath an oak," said the king, " I sat on Seliiia's 
streamy rock, when Connal rose, from the sea, with 
the broken spear of Duth-caron. Far distant stood the 
youth. He turned away his eyes. He remembered 
the steps of his father, on his own green hill. I dark- 
ened in my place. Dusky thoughts flew over my soul. 
The kings of Eriti rose before mo. I half un.shetUhed 
the sword. Slowly approached the chiefs. They 
lifted up their silent eyes. Like a ridge of clouds, 
they wait for the bursting forlh of my voice. My 
voice was, to them, a wind from heaven, to roll the 
mist away. 

" I bade my white sails to rise, before the roar of 
Cona's wind. Three hundred youths looked, from their 
waves, on Fingal's bossy shield. High on the mast 
t hung, and marked the dark-blue sea. But when 
night came down, I struck, at times, the warning boss : 
I struck, and looked on high, for fiery-haired Ul-orin.* 

* Ul-erin, " the guide to Ireland," a star known by that name \a 
the days of Finiral 



TEMORA. 435 

Nor absent was the star of heaven. It travelled red 
between the clouds. 1 pursued the lovely beam, on 
the faint-gleaming deep. With morning, Erin rose in 
mist. We came into the bay of Moi-lena, where its 
blue waters tumbled, in the bosom of echoing woods. 
Here Cormac, in his secret halls, avoids the strength 
of Colc-ulla. Nor he alone, avoids the foe. The blue 
eye of Ros-cranna is there : Ros-cranna, white-handed 
ir»aid, the daughter of the king ! 

" Gray, on his pointless spear, came forth the aged 
steps of Cormac. He smiled from his waving locks ; 
but grief was in his soul. He saw us few before him, 
and his sigh arose. 'I see the arms of Trenmor,' he 
said ; ' and these are the steps of the king ! Fingal ! 
thou art a beam of light to Cormac's darkened soul ! 
Early is thy fame, my son : but strong are the foes 
of Erin. They are like the roar of streams in the 
land, son of car-borne Comhal !' ' Yet they may be 
rolled away,' I said, in my rising soul. ' We are not 
of the race of the feeble, king of blue-shielded hosts ! 
Why sliould fear come amongst us, like a ghost of 
night ? The soul of the valiant grows when foes in- 
crease in the field. Roll no darkness, king of Erin, 
on the young in war !' 

" The bursting tears of the king came down. He 
•leized my hand in silence. ' Race of the daring 
Trenmor !' at length he said, ' I roll no cloud before 
iheo. Thou burnest in the fire of thy fathers. I be- 
iiold thy fame. It marks thy course in battle, like a 
stream of light. But wait the coming of Cairbar ; my 
SO" must join thy sword. He calls the sons of Erin 
from all theii- distant streams.' 

" We came to the hall of the king, where it rose in 
the midst of rocks, on whose dark sides were the marks 
of streams of old. Broad oaks bend around with their 
moss. The thick birch is waving near. Half hid, in 



436 THE POF.MS OF OSSTAN. 

her shadowy grove, Ros-cranna raises the song. Her 
white hands move on the harp. I beheld her blue- 
roHing eyes. She was like a sph'it of heaven half 
folded in the skirt of a cloud ! 

" Three days we feasted at Moi-lena. She rises 
bright in my troubled soul. Cormac beheld nne dark. 
He gave the white-bosomed maid. She comes with 
bending eye, amid the wandering of her heavy locks. 
She came ! Straight the battle roared. Colc-ulla ap- 
peared : I took my spear. My sword rose, with my 
people against the ridgy foe. Alnecma fled. Colc-ulla 
fell. Fingal returned with fame. 

" Renowned is he, O Fillan, who fights in the 
strength of his host. The bard pursues his steps 
through the land of the foe. But he who fights alone, 
few are his deeds to other times ! He shines to-day, a 
mighty light. To-morrow he is low. One song con- 
tains his fame. His name is one dark field. He is 
forgot ; but where his tomb sends forth the tufted 
grass." 

Such are the words of Fingal, on Mora of the roes. 
Three bards, from the rock of Cormul, pour down the 
pleasing song. Sleep descends in the sound, on the 
broad-skirted host. Carril returned with the bards, 
from the tomb of Dunlora's chief. The voice of morn- 
ing shall not come to the dusky bed of Duth-caron. 
No more shalt thou hear the tread of roes around thy 
narrow house ! 

As roll the troubled clouds, around a meteor of night, 
vvhcn they brighten their sides with its light along the 
heaving sea ; so gathers Erin around the gleaming 
form of Cathmor. He, tall in the midst, careless lifts, 
at times, his spear: as swells or falls the sound of 
Fonar's distant harp. Near him leaned, against a rock, 
Sul-malla of blue eyes, the white-bosomed daughter of 
Conmor, kinsj of Inis-huna. To his aid came blue- 



TEWOKA. 437 

shielded Cathmor, and rolled his foes away. Sul-malla 
beheld him stately in the hall of feasts. Nor careless 
rolled the eyes of Cathmor on the long-haired maid ! 

The third day arose, when Fithil came, from Erin 
of the streams. He told of the lifting up of the shield 
in Solma : he told of the danger of Cairbar. Cathmor 
raised the sail at Cluba ; but the winds were in other 
lands. Three days he remained on the coast, and 
.arned his eyes on Conmor's halls. He remembered 
the daughter of strangers, and his sigh arose. Now 
when the winds aivaked the wave : from the hill came 
a youth in arms ; to lift the sword with Cathmor, in 
his echoing fields. It was the white-armed Sul-malla. 
Secret she dwelt beneath her helmet. Her steps were 
in the path of the king : on him her blue eyes rolled 
with joy, when he lay by his rolling streams : But Cath- 
mor thought that on Lumon she still pursued the roes. 
He thought, that fair on a rock, she stretched her 
white hand to the wind ; to feel its course from Erin, 
the green dwelling of her love. He had promised to 
return, with his white-bosomed sails. The maid is 
near thee, O Cathmor : leaning on her rock. - 

The tall forms of the chiefs stand around ; all but 
dark-browed Foldath. He leaned against a distant 
tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His bushy hair 
whistles in the wind. At times, bursts the hum of 
a song. He struck the tree at length, in wrath ; and 
rushed before the king ! Calm and stately, to the beam 
of the oak, arose the form of young Hidalla. His hair 
falls round his blushing cheek, in the wreaths of wav- 
ing light. Soft was his voice in Clonra, in the valley 
of his fathers. Soft was his voice when he touched 
the harp, in the hall near his roaring stream ! 

" King of Erin," said Hidalla, " now is the time to 
feast. Bid the voice of bards arise. Bid them roll the 
night away. The soul returns, from song, more ter- 
37* 



438 THE POEMS OF O.SSIAN. 

rible to war. Darkness settles on Erin. From hill 
to hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and gray, on the 
heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts are seen : the 
ghosts of those who fell bend forward to their song. 
Bid, O Cathmor! the harps to rise, to brighten the 
dead, on their wandering blasts." 

"Be all the dead forgot," said Foldath's bursting 
wrath. " Did_ not I fail in the field ? Shalt I then hear 
the song 1 Yet was not my course harmless in war. 
Blood was a stream around my steps. But the feeble 
were behind me. The foe has escaped from my sword. 
In Clom-a's vale touch thou the harp. Let Dura an- 
swer to the voice of Hidalla. Let some maid look, 
from the wood, on thy long yellow locks. Fly from 
Lubar's echoing plain. This is the field of heroes !" 

" King of Erin," Malthos said, " it is thine to lead 
in war. Thou art a fire to our eyes, on the dark- 
brown field. Like a blast thou hast passed over hosts. 
Thou hast laid them low in blood. But who has heard 
thy words returning from the field ? The wrathful de- 
light in death ; their remembrance rests on the wounds 
of their spear. Strife is folded in their thoughts : their 
words are ever heard. Thy course, chief of Moma, 
was like a troubled stream. The dead were rolled on 
thy path : but others also lift the spear. We were not 
feeble behind thee : but the foe was strong." 

Cathmor beheld the rising rage and bending forward 
of either chief: for, half unsheathed, they held their 
swords, and rolled their silent eyes. Now would they 
have mixed in horrid fray, had not the wrath of Cath- 
mor burned. He drew his sword : it gleamed through 
night, to the high-flaming oak ! " Sons of pride," said 
the king, " allay your swelling souls. Retire in night. 
Why should my rage arise ? Should I contend with 
both in arms ! It is no time for strife ! Retire, ye clouds, 
at my feast. Awake my soul no more." 



TE^IORA. 439 

.They >suiik from the king on either side; hke two 
columns of morning mist, when the sun rises, between 
them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on 
either side : each towards its reedy pool ! 

Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look, at times, • 
on Atha's king, where he strode, on his rock, amid his 
settling soul. The host lie along the field. Sleep de- 
scends on Moi-lena. The voice of Fonar ascends 
alone, beneath his distant tree. It ascends in the praise 
of Cathmor, son of Larthon of Lumon. But Cathmor 
did not hear his praise. He lay at the roar of a 
stream. The rustling breeze of night flew over his 
whistling locks. 

His brother came to his dreams, half seen from his 
low-hung cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face. He had 
heard the sonsr of Carril.* A blast sustained his dark- 

o 

skirted cloud : which he seized in the bosom of night, 
as he rose, with his fame, towards his airy hall. Half 
mixed with the noise of the stream, he poured his feeble 
words. 

" Joy meet the soul of Cathmor. His voice was 
heard on Moi-lena. The bard gave his song to Cair- 
bar. He travels on the wind. My form is in my 
father's hall, like the gliding of a terrible light, which 
darts across the desert, in a stormy night. No bard 
shall be wanting at thy tomb when thou art lowly laid. 
The sons of song love the voiiant. Ca,thmor, thy name 
is a pleasant gale. The mournful sounds arise ! On 
Lubar's field there is a voice ! Louder still, ye shadowy 
ghosts ! The dead were full of fame ! Shrilly ssvells 
tiie feeble sound. The rougher blast alone is heard! 
Ah ! soon is Cathmor low !" Rolled into himself he 
flew, wide on the bosom of winds. The old oak felt 
his departure, and shook its whistling head. Cathmor 

♦ The funeral elegy at the tomb of Cairbar. 



440 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

starts from rest. He takes his deathful spear. He 
lifts his eyes around. He sees but dark-skirted night. 

" It was the voice of the king," he said. " But now 
his form is gone. Unmarked is your path in the air, 
ye children of the night. Often, like a reflected beam, 
are ye seen in the desert wild : but ye retire in your 
blasts, before our steps approach. Go, then, ye feeble 
race ! Knowledge with you there is none ! Your joys 
are weak, and like the dreams of our rest, or the light- 
winged thought, that flies across the soul. Shall Cath- 
mor soon be low ? Darkly laid in his narrow house ? 
Where no morning comes, with her half-opened eyes? 
Away, thou shade ! to fight is mine ! All further thought 
away ! I rush forth on eagles' wings, to seize my beam 
of fame. In the lonely vale of streams, abides the 
narrow soul. Years roll on, seasons return, but he is 
still unknown. In a blast comes cloudy death, and 
lays his gray head low. His ghost is folded in the 
vapor of the fenny field. Its course is never on hills, 
nor mossy vales of wind. So shall not Cathmor de- 
part. No boy in the field was he, who only marks the 
bed of roes, upon the echoing hills. My issuing forth 
was with kings. My joy in dreadful plains : where 
broken hosts are rolled away, like seas before the 
wind." 

So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in hia 
rising soul. Valor, like a pleasant flame, is gleaming 
within his breast. Stately is his stride on the heath ! 
The beam of east is poured around. He saw his gray 
host on the field, wide spreading their ridges in light. 
He rejoiced, like a spirit of heaven, whose steps came 
forth on the seas, when he beholds them peaceful round, 
and all the winds are laid. But soon he awakes the 
waves, and rolls them large to some echoing shore. 

On the rushy bank of a stream slept the daughter of 
Inis-huna. The helmet had fallen from her head. 



TEMORA. 441 

Her dreams were in the lands of her fathers. There 
morning is on the field. Gray streams leap down from 
the rocks. The breezes, in shadowy waves, fly over 
the rushy fields. There is the sound that prepares for 
the chase. There the moving of warriors from the 
hall. But tall above the rest is seen the hero of streamy 
Atha. He bends his eye of love on Sul-malla, from his 
stately steps. She turns, with pride, her face away, 
and careless bends the bow. 

Such were the dreams of the maid when Cathmor of 
Atha came. He saw her fair face before him, in the 
midst of her wandering locks. He knew the maid of 
Lumon. What should Cathmor do ? His sighs arise. 
His tears come down. But straight he turns away. 
" This is no time, king of Atha, to awake thy secret 
soul. The battle is rolled before thee like a troubled 
stream." 

He struck that warning boss,* wherein dwelt the 
voice of war. Erin rose around him, like the sound 
of eagle wing. Sul-malla started from sleep, in her 
disordered locks. She seized the helmet from earth. 
She trembled in her place. " Why should they know 
in Erin of the daughter of Inis-hunal" She remem- 
bered the race of kings. The pride of her soul arose! 
Her steps are behind a rock, by the blue-winding 
stream of a vale ; where dwelt the dark-brown hind 
ere yet the war arose, thither came the voice of Cath- 
mor, at times, to Sul-malla's ear. Her soul is darkly 
sad. She pours her words on wind. 

" The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They are dis- 



* In order to understand this passage, it is necessary to look to 
the description of Cathmor's shield in th^ seventh book. This 
shield had seven principal bosses, the sound of each of which, when 
struck with a spear, conveyed a particular order from the king to 
his tribes. The sound of one of them, as here, was the signal for 
the army to assemble. 



442 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

persed from my soul. I hear not the chase in my 
land. I am concealed in the skirt of war. I look 
forth from my cloud. No beam appears to light my 
path. I behold my warriors low ; for the broad- 
shielded king is near. He that overcomes in danger, 
Fingal, from Selma of spears ! Spirit of departed Con- 
mor ! are thy steps on the bosom of winds ? Comest 
thou, at times, to other lands, father of sad Sul-malla ? 
Thou dost come ! I have heard thy voice at night ; 
while yet I rose on the wave to Erin of the streams. 
The ghosts of fathers, they say, call away the souls of 
their race, while they behold them lonely in the midst 
of wo. Call me, my father, away ! When Cathmor is 
low on earth, then shall Sul-malla be . lonely in the 
midst of wo!" 



BOOK V. 

ARGUMENT. 

The poet, alter a short address to the harp of Cona, describes the 
arrangement of both armies on either side of the river Lubar. 
Fingal gives the comniand to Fillan ; but at the same time orders 
Gaul, the son of Morni, who had been wounded in the hand in 
the preceding battle, to as^^ict him with his counsel. The army 
of the Fir-bolg is commanded by Foldath. The general onset is 
described. The great actions of Fillan. He kills Kothmar and 
Culmin. But when Fillan conquers in one wing, Foldath presses 
hard on the other. He wounds Dermid, the son of Duthno, and 
puts the whole wing to llight. Dermid dehberates with himsell', 
and, at last, resolves to pul a stop to the progress of Foldath, by 
engaging him in single combat. "When the two chieis v^-ere ap- 
proaching towards one another, Fillan came suddenly to the re- 
lief of L'eimid ; engaged Foldath, and killed him. The behavior 
of Malthos tov/ards the fallen Foldath. Fillan puts the whole 
army of the Fir-bolg to flight. The book closes with an address 
to Clatho, the mother of that hero 

Thou dweller between the shields that hang, on high, 
in Ossian's hall ! Descend from thy place, O harp, and 
let me hear thy voice ! Son of Alpin, strike the string. 
Thou must awake the soul of the bard. The murmur 
of Lora's stream has rolled the tale away. I stand in 
the cloud of years. Few are its openings towards the 
past ; and when the vision comes, it is but dim and 
dark. I hear thee, harp of Selma ! my soul returns, 
like a breeze, which the sun brings back to the vale, 
where dwelt the lazy mist. 

Lubar is bright before me in the windings of its 
vale. On either side, on their hills, arise the tall forms 
of the kings. Their people are poured around them, 
bending forward to their words: as if their fathers 
spoke, descending from the winds. But they them- 
selves are like two rocks in the midst ; each with its 
dark head of pines, when they are seen in the desert, 



444 THE POEMS OF OSSI^N. 

above low-sailing inist. High on their face are streams 
which spread their foam on blasts of wind ! 

Beneath the voice of Cathmor pours Erin, like the 
sound of flame. Wide they come down to Lubar. 
Before them is the stride of Foldath. But Cathmor 
retires to his hill, beneath his bending oak. The tum- 
bling of a stream is near the king. He lifts, at times, 
his gleaming spear. It is a flame to his people, in the 
midst of war. Near him stands the daughter of Con- 
mor, leaning on a rock. She did not rejoice at the 
strife. Her soul delighted not in blood. A valley 
spreads green behind the hill, with its three blue 
streams. The sun is there in silence. The dun moun- 
tain roes come down. On these are turned the eyes of 
Sul-malla in her thoughtful mood. 

Fingal beholds Cathmor, on high, the son of Borbar- 
duthul ! he beholds the deep rolling of Erin, on the 
darkened plain. He strikes that warning boss, which 
bids the people to obey, when he sends his chief before 
them, to the field of renown. Wide rise their spears 
to the sun. Their echoing shields reply around. Fear, 
like a vapor, winds not among the liost : for he, the 
king, is near, the strength of streamy Selma. Glad- 
ness brightens the hero. We hear his words with joy. 

" Like the coming forth of v/inds, is the soujid of 
Selma's sons ! They are mountain waters, determined 
in their course. Hence is Fingal renowned. Hence 
is his name in other lands. He was not a lonely beam 
in danger : for your steps were always near ! But 
never was Fingal a dreadful form, in your presence, 
darkened into wrath. My voice was no thunder to 
your ears. Mine eyes sent forth no death. When the 
haughty appeared, I beheld them not. They were for- 
got at my feasts. Like mist they melted away. A 
young beam is before you ! Few are his paths to war ! 
They are few, but he is valiant. Defend my dark- 



TEMORA. iir) 

haired son. Bring Fillan back with joy. Herealtor 
he may stand alone. His form is like his fathers. 
His soul is a flame of their fire. Son of car-borne 
Morni, move behind the youth. Let thy voice reach 
his ear, from the skirts of war. Not unobserved rolls 
battle before thee, breaker of the shields." 

The king strode, at once, away to Cormul's lofty 
rock. Intermitting darts the light from his shield, as 
slow the king of heroes moves. Sidelong rolls his eye 
o'er the heath, as forming advance the lines. Grace- 
ful fly his half-gray locks round his kingly features, 
now lightened with dreadful joy. Wholly micrhty is 
the chief ! Behind him dark and slow I moved . Straight 
came forward the strength of Gaul. His shield hung 
loose on its thong. He spoke, in haste, to Ossian. 
" Bind, son of Fingal, this shield ! Bind it high to the 
side of Gaul. The foe may behold it, and think I lift 
the spear. If I should fall, let my tomb be hid in the 
field ; for fall I must without fame. i\Iine arm cannot 
lift the steel. Let not Evir-choma hear it, to blush be- 
tween her locks. Fillan, the mighty behold us ! Let 
us not forget the strife. Why should they come from 
their hills, to aid our flying field !" 

He strode onward, with the sound of his shield. My 
voice pursued him as he went. '' Can the son of Morni 
fall, without his fame in Erin '? But the deeds of the 
mighty are forgot by themselves. They rush earless 
over the fields of renown. Their words are never 
heard !" I rejoiced over the steps of the chief. I 
strode to the rock of the king, where he sat, in his 
wandering locks, amid the mountain wind ' 

In two dark ridges bend the host towards each other- 
at Lubar. Here Foldath rises a pillar of darkness ; 
there brightens the youth of Fillan. Each, with his 
spear in the stream, sent forth the voice of war. Gaul 
struck the shield of Selma. At once they plunge in 
38 



446 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

battle ! Steel pours its gleam on steel : like th(3 fall of 
streams shone the field, when they mix their foam to- 
gether, from two dark-browed rocks! Behold he 
comes, the son of fame ! He lays the people low ! 
Deaths sit on blasts around him ! Warriors strew thy 
paths, O Fillan ! 

Rotlimar, the shield of warriors, stood between two 
chinky rocks. Two oaks, which winds had bent from 
high, spread their branches on either side. He rolls 
his darkening eyes on Fillan, and, silent, shades his 
friends. Fingal saw the approaching fight. The 
hero's soul arose. But as the stone of Loda* falls, 
shook, at once, from rocking Drumanard, when spirits 
heave the earth in their wrath ; so fell blue-shielded 
Rothmar. 

Near are the steps of Culmin ; the youth came, 
bursting into tears. Wrathful he cut the wind, ere yet 
he mixed his strokes with Fillan. He had first bent 
the bow with Rothmar, at the rock of his own blue 
streams. There they had marked the place of the roe, 
as the sunbeam flew over the fern. Why, son of Cul- 
allin ! why, Culmin, dost thou rush on that beam of 
light ?■!■ It is a fire that consumes. Son of Cul-allir, 
retire. Your fathers were not equal in the glittering 
strife of the field. The mother of Culmin remains in 
the hall. She looks forth on blue-rolling Strutha. A 
whirlwind rises, on the stream, dark-eddying round the 
ghost of her son. His dogsj are howling in their 
place. His shield is bloody in the hall. " Art thou 
fallen, my fair-haired son, in Erin's dismal war V 

* By " the stone of Loda" is meant a place of worship among 
the Scandinavians. 

t The poet metaphorically calls Fillan a beam of light. 

j Dogs were thought to be sensible of the death of their mastei, 
let it happen at ever so great a distance. It was also the opinion of 
the times, that the arms, which warriors left at home, became 
bloody when they themselves fell in battle. 



TEMORA. 447 

As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her wont- 
ed streams ; the hunter surveys her feet of wind ! He 
remembers her stately bounding before. So lay the 
son of Cul-allin beneath the eye of Fillan. His hair 
is rolled in a little stream. His blood wanders on his 
shield. Still his hand holds the sword, that failed him 
in the midst of danger. " Thou art fallen," said Fil- 
lan, " ere yet thy fame was heard. Thy father sent 
thee to war. He expects to hear of thy deeds. He 
is gray, perhaps, at his streams. His eyes are towards 
Moi-lena. But thou shalt not return with the spoil of 
the fallen foe !" 

Fillan pours the flight of Erin before him, over the 
resounding heath. But, man on man, fell Morven be- 
fore the dark-red rage of Foldath : for, far on the field, 
he poured the roar of half his tribes. Dermid stands 
before him in wrath. The sons of Selma gathered 
around. But his shield is cleft by Foldath. His peo- 
ple fly over the heath. 

Then said the foe in his pride, '• They have fled. 
My fime begins ! Go, Malthos, go bid Cathmor guard 
the dark rolling of ocean ; that FingrJ may not escape 
from my sword. He must lie on earth. Beside some 
{on shall his tomb be seen. It shall rise without a 
song. His ghost shall hover, in mist, over the reedy 
pool." 

Malthos heard, with darkening doubt. He rolled 
his silent eyes. He knew the pride of Foldath. He 
looked up to Fingal on his hills ; then darkly turning, 
HI doubtful mood, he plunged his sword in war. 

In Clone's narrow vale, where bend two trees above 
the stream, dark, in his grief, stood Duthno's silent 
son. The blood pours from the side of Dermid. His 
shield is broken near. His spear leans against a stone. 
Why, Dermid, why so sad '? " I hear the roar of battle. 
My people are alone. My steps are slow on the heath ; 



448 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

and no shield is mine. Shall he then prevail ? It is 
then after Dermid is low ! 1 will call thee forth, O 
Foldath, and meet thee yet in fight." 

He took his spear, with dreadful joy. The son of 
Moi'ni came. " Stay, son of Duthno, stay thy speed. 
Thy steps are marked with blood. No bossy shield is 
thine. Why shouldst thou fall unarmed '?" — " Son of 
Morni, give thou thy shield. It has often rolled back 
the war. I shall stop the chief in his course. Son of 
JMorni, behold that stone ! It lifts its gray head througli 
grass. There dwells a chief of the race of Dermid. 
Place me there in night." 

He slowly rose against the hill. He saw the troubled 
field : the gleaming ridges of battle, disjointed and 
broken around. As distant fires, on heath by night, 
now seem as lost in smoke : now rearing their red 
streams on the hill, as blow or cease the winds ; so met 
the intermitting war the eye of broad-shielded Dermid. 
Through the host are the strides of Foldath, like some 
dark ship on wintry waves, when she issues from be- 
tween two isles to sport on resounding ocean ! 

Dermid with rage beholds his course. He strives 
to rush along. But he fails amid his steps ; and the 
big tear comes down. He sounds his father's horn. 
He thrice strikes his bossy shield. He calls thrice the 
name of Foldath, from his roaring tribes. Foldath, 
with joy, beholds the chief. He lifts aloft his bloody 
spear. As a rock is marked with streams, that fell 
troubled down its side in a storm ; so streaked with 
wandering blood, is the dark chief of Moma ! The 
host on either side withdraw from the contending kings. 
They raise, at once, their gleaming points. Rushing 
comes Fillan of Selma. Three paces back Foldath with- 
draws, dazzled with that beam of light, which came, as 
issuing from a cloud, to save the wounded chief. Grow- 
ing in his pride he stands. He calls forth all his steel. 



TEMORA. 449 

As meet two broad-winged eagles, in their sounding 
strife, in winds : so rush the two chiefs, on Moi-lena, 
into gloomy fight. By turns are the steps of the 
kings* forward on their rocks above; for now the 
dusky war seems to descend on their swords. Cath- 
mor feels the joy of warriors, on his mossy hill : their 
joy in secret, when dangers rise to match their souls. 
His eye is not turned on Lubar, but on Selma's dread- 
ful king. He beholds him, on Mora, rising in his arms. 

Foldath falls on his shield. The spear of Fillan 
pierced the king. Nor looks the youth on the fallen, 
but onward rolls the war. The hundred voices of death 
arise. " Stay, son of Fingal, stay thy speed. Be- 
holdest thou not that gleaming form, a dreaful sign of 
death ? Awaken not the king of Erin. Return, son 
of blue-eyed Clatho." 

Malthos beholds Foldath low. He darkly stands 
above the chief. Hatred is rolled from his soul. He 
seems a rock in a desert, on wliose dark side are the 
trickling of waters ; when the slow-sailing mist has 
left it, and all its trees are blasted with winds. He 
spoke to the dying hero about the narrow house. 
" Whether shall thy gray stones rise in UUin, or in 
Moma's woody land ; where the sun looks, in secret, 
on the blue streams of Dalrutho ? There are the steps 
of thy daughter, blue-eyed Dardu-lena !" 

" Rememberest thou her," said Foldath, " because 
no son is mine ; no youth to roll the battle before him, 
in revenge of me ? Malthos, I am revenged. I was 
not peaceful in the field. Raise the tombs of those I 
have slain, around my narrow house. Often shall 1 
forsake the blast, to rejoice above their graves ; when 
I behold them spread around, with their long-whistling 
grass." 

♦ Fingal and Cathraor- 

38* 



450 ■ THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

His soul rushed to the vale of Moma, to Dardu-lena's 
dreams, where she slept, by Dalrutho's stream, return- 
ing from the chase of the hinds. Her bow is near the 
maid, unstrung. Tlie breezes fold her long hair on her 
breasts. Clothed in the beauty of youth, the love of 
heroes lay. Dark bending, from the skirts of the 
wood, her wounded father seemed to come. He ap- 
peared, at times, then hid himself in mist. Bursting 
into tears she arose. She knew that the chief was low. 
To her came a beam from his soul, when folded in its 
storms. Thou wert the last of his race, O blue-eyed 
Dardu-lena. 

Wide spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of 
Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hangs forward on their 
steps. He strews, with dead, the heath. Fingal re- 
joices over his. son. Blue-shielded Cathmor rose. 

Son of Alpin, bring the harp. Give Fillan's praise 
to the wind. Raise high his praise in mine ear, while 
j'^et he shines in war. 

" Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall ! Behold 
that early beam of thine ! The host is withered in its 
course. No further look, it is dark. Light trembling 
from the harp, strike, virgins, strike the sound. No 
hunter he descends from the dewy haunt of the bound- 
ing roe. He bends not his bow on the wind ; nor 
sends his gray arrow abroad. 

'- Deep folded in red war ! See battle roll against 
his side. Striding amid the ridgy strife, he pours the 
death of thousands forth. Fillan is like a spirit of 
heaven, that descends from the skirt of winds. The 
troubled ocean feels his steps, as he strides from wave 
to wave. His path kindles behind him. Islands shake 
their heads on the heaving seas ! Leave, bhie-eyed 
Clatho, leave thy hall !" 



BOOK VI. 

ARGUMENT. 

Tlus book opens with a speech of Fingal, who s<ses Cathmor de- 
scending to the assistance of his flying army. The king de- 
spatches Ossian to the rehef of Fillan. He himself retires behind 
the rock of Cormul, to avoid the sight of the engagement be- 
tv/eea his son and Cathmor. Ossian advances. The descent of 
Cathmor described. He raUics the armv, renews the battle, and, 
before Ossian could anive, engages Fillan himself. Upon the 
approach of Ossian, the combat between the two heroes ceases. 
0^=tan and Cathnior prepare to fight, but night coming on pre- 
vents them. Ossian returns to the place where Cathmor and 
Fiilan fought. He finds Fillan mortally wounded, and leaning 
against a rock. Their discourse. Fillan dies, his body is laicf, 
!)y Ossian, in a neighboring cave. The Caledonian army return 
to Fingal. He questions them about his son, and understanding 
that he was killed, retires^, in silence, to the rock of CormuL 
Upon the retreat of the ai^my of Fingal, the Fir-bolg advance. 
Cathmor finds Bran, one of the dogs of Fingal, lying on the 
shield of Fillan, before the entrance of the cave, where the body 
of that hero lay. His reflection thereupon. He returns, in a 
mel-uicholy mood, to his army. Malthcs endeavors to comfort 
him, by the example of his father, Eorbar-duthul. Cathmor re- 
tires to rest. The song of Sul-malla concludes the book, which 
ends about the middle of the third night from the opening of the 
poem. 

" Catj MOR rises on his hill ! Shall Fingal take the 
sword of Luna 1 But what shall become of thy fame, 
son of w^hite-bosomed Clatho ? Turn not thine eyes 
from Fingal, fair daughter of Inis-tore. I shall not 
(juench thy early beam. It shines along my soul. 
Rise, wood-skirted Mora, rise between the war and 
me ! Why should Fingal behold the strife, lest his 
dark-haired warrior should fall ? Amidst the song, O 
Carril, pour the sound of the trembling harp ! Here 
are the voices of rocks ! and there the bright tumbling 
of waters. Father of Oscar ! lift the spear ! defend 
the young in arms. Conceal thy steps from Fillan. 



452 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

He must not know that I doubt his steel. No cloud of 
mine shall rise, my son, upon thy soul of fire V 

He sunk behind his rock, amid the sound of Carril's 
song. Brightening in my growing soul, I took the 
spear of Temora. I saw, along Moi-lena, the wild 
tumbling of battle ; the strife of death, in gleaming 
rows, disjointed and broken round. Fillan is a beam 
of fire. From wing to wing is his wasteful course. 
The ridges of war melt before him. They are rolled, 
in smoke, from the fields ! 

Now is the coming forth of Cathmor, in the armor 
of kings ! Dark waves the eagle's wing, above his 
helmet of fire. Unconcerned are his steps, as if they 
were to the chase of Erin. He raises, at times, his 
terrible voice. Erin, abashed, gathers round. Their 
souls return back, like a stream. They wonder at the 
steps of their fear. He rose, like the beam of the 
morning, on a haunted heath: the traveller looks bi"!\-, 
with bending eye, on the field of dreadful forms ! Su i- 
den from the rock of Moi-lena, are Sul-malla's trem- 
bling steps. An oak takes the spear from her hand. 
Half bent she looses the lance. But then are her eyes 
on the king, from amid her wandering locks ! No 
friendly strife is before thee ! No light contending of 
bows, as when the youth of Inis-huna come forth be- 
neath the eye of Conmor ! 

As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing clouds 
as they fly, seems growing, in gathered darkness, over 
the streamy heath ; so seems the chief of Atha taller, 
as gather his people around. As different blasts fly 
over the sea, each behind its dark-blue wave ; so 
Camrnor's words, on every side, pour his warriors 
forth. Nor silent on his hill is Fillan. He mixes his 
words with his echoing shield. An eagle he seemed, 
with sounding wings, calling the wind to his rock, when 



lEMORA. 453 

he sees the coming forth of the roes, on Lutha's rushy 
field! 

Now they bend forward in battle. Death's hundred 
voices arise. The kings, on either side, were like fires 
on the souls of the host. Ossian bounded along. High 
rocks and trees rush tall between the war and me. But 
I hear the noise of steel, between my clanging arms. 
Rising, gleaming on the hill, I behold the backward 
steps of hosts : their backward steps on either side, and 
wildly-looking eyes. The chiefs were met in dreadful 
fight ! The two blue-shielded kings ! Tall and dark, 
through gleams of steel, are seen the striving heroes ! 
I rush. My fears for Fillan fly, burning, across my 
soul ! 

I come. Nor Cathmor flies ; nor yet comes on ; 
he sidelong stalks along. An icy rock, cold, tall, he 
seems. I call forth all my steel. Silent awhile we 
stride, on either side of a rushing stream : then, sud- 
den turning, all at once, we raise our pointed spears. 
We raise our spears, but night comes down. It is 
dark and silent round ; but where the distant steps of 
hosts are sounding over the heath. 

I come to the place where Fillan fought. Nor voice 
nor sound is there. A broken helmet lies on earth, a 
buckler cleft in twain. Where, Fillan, where art thou, 
young chief of echoing Morven ? He hears me, lean- 
ing on a rock, which bends its gi'ay head over the 
stream. He hears ; but sullen, dark he stands. At 
length I saw the hero. 

f "Why standest thou, robed in darkness, son of 
woody Selma ! Bright is thy path, my brother, in this 
dark-brown field ! Long has been thy strife in battle ! 
Now the horn of Fingal is heard. Ascend to the cloud 
of thy father, to his hill of feasts. In the evening mists 
he sits, and hears the sound of Carril's harp. Carry 
joy to the aged, young breaker of the shields !" 



454 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

" Can the vanquished carry joy ? Ossian, no shield 
is mine ! It lies broken on the field. The eagle-wing 
of my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before 
them, that fathers delight in their sons. But their 
sighs burst forth, in secret, when their young warriors 
yield. No : Fillan shall not behold the king ! Why 
should the hero mourn ?" 

" Son of blue-eyed Clatho ! O Fillan, awake not 
my soul ! Wert thou not a burning fire before him ? 
Shall he not rejoice ? Such fame belongs not to Ossian ; 
yet is the king stili a sun to me. He looks on my 
steps with joy. Shadows never rise on his face. As- 
cend, O Fillan, to Mora ! His feast is spread in the 
folds of mist." 

" Ossia.n ! give me that broken shield : those feath- 
ers that are rolled in the wind. Place them near to 
Fillan, that less of his fame may fall. Ossian, I begin 
to fail. Lay me in that hollow rock. Raise no stone 
above, lest one should ask about my fame. I am fallen 
in the first of my fields, fallen without renown. Let 
thy voice alone send joy to my flying soul. Why 
should the bard know where dwells the lost beam of 
Clatlio V 

" Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, O Fillan, young 
breaker of shields. Joy pursue my hero, through liis 
folded clouds. The forms of thy fathers, O Fillan, 
bend to receive iheir son ! 1 behold the spreading of 
their fire on j^J^ora : the blue-rolling of their wreaths. 
Joy meet thee, my brother ! But we are dark and sad ! 
1 behold the foe round the aged. I behold the wasting 
away of his fame. Thou art left alone in the field, O 
gray-haired king of Selma !" 

I laid him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the 
nightly stream. One red star /ooked in on the hero. 
Winds lift, at times, his locks. I listen. No sound is 
heard. The warrior slept ! As lightning on a cloud, 



TEMORA. 455 

a ;nought came rufehing along m)' soul. My eyes roll 
in fire : my stride was in the clang of steel. " I will 
find thee, king of Erin ! in the gathering of thy thou- 
sands find thee. Why should that cloud escape, that 
quenched our early beam ? Kindle your meteors on 
your hills, my fathers. Light my daring steps. I will 

consume in wrath.* But should not I return ? 

The king is without a son, gray-haired among his foes ! 
His arm is not as in the days of old. His fame grows 
dim in Erin. Let me not behold him, laid low in his 
latter field. — But can I return to the king ? Will he 
not ask about his son ? " Thou oughtest to defend 
young Fillan." — Ossian will meet the foe ! Green 
Erin, thy sounding tread is pleasant to my ear. I rush 
on thy ridgy host, to shun the eyes of Fingal. I hear 
the voice of the king, on Mora's misty top ! He calls 
his two sons ! I come, my father, in my grief. I 
come like an eagle, which the flame of night met in 
the desert, and spoiled of half his wings ! 

Distant, round the king, on Mora, the broken ridges 
of Morven are rolled. They turned their eyes : each 
darkly bends, on his own ashen spear. Silent stood 
the king in the midst. Thought on thought rolled over 
his soul : as waves on a secret mountain lake, each 
with its back of foam. He looked ; no son appeared, 
with his long-beaming spear. The sighs rose, crowd- 
ing, from his soul ; but ho concealed his grief. At 
length I stood beneath an oak. No voice of mine was 

* Here the sentence is desienedly left unfinished. The sense is, 
that he was re?olved, like a destroying fire, to consume Cathmor, 
wh5 liad killed his brother. In the midst of this resolution, the 
situation of Fiiigal suggests itself to him in a very strong light. He 
resolves to return to assist the king in prosecuting the war. But 
then his shame for not defending his brother recurs to him. He is 
determined again to go and find out Cathmor. We may consider 
him as in the act of advancing towards the cnerayj, when the horn 
of Fingal soimded on Mora, and called back his people to his 
presence. 



456 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

heard. What, could I say to Fingal in this hour of 
wo '? His words rose, at length, in the midst : the 
people shrunk backward as he spoke. 

" Where is the son of Selma ; he who led in war ? 
1 behold not his steps, among my people, returning 
from the field. Fell the young bounding roe, who was 
so stately on my hills ? He fell ! for ye are silent. 
The shield of war is cleft in twain. Let his armor 
be near to Fingal ; and the sword of dark-brown Luno. 
I am waked on my hills ; with morning 1 descend to 



war 



t" 



High on Cormul's rock, an oak is flaming to the 
wind. The gray skirts of mist are rolled around ; 
thither strode the king in his wrath. Distant from the 
host he always lay, when battle burnt within his soul. 
On two spears hung his shield on high ; the gleaming 
sign of death ! that shield, which he was wont to strike, 
by night, before he rushed to war. It was then his 
warriors knew when the king was to lead in strife ; 
for never was his buckler heard, till the wrath of Fin- 
gal arose. Unequal were his steps on high, as he 
shone on the beam of the oak ; he was dreadful as the 
form of the spirit of night, when he clothes, on hills, 
his wild gestures with mist, and, issuing forth, on the 
troubled ocean, moimts the car of winds. 

Nor settled, from the storm, is Erin's sea of war ! 
they glitter, beneath the moon, and, low humming, still 
roll on the field. Alone are the steps of Gathmor, be- 
fore them on the heath : he hangs forward, with all 
his arms, on Morven's flying host. Now had he come 
to the mossy cave, where Fillan lay in night. One 
tree was bent above the stream, which glittered over 
the rock. There shone to the moon the broken shield 
of Clatho's son ; and near it, on grass, lay hairy-footed 
Bran. He had missed the chief on Mora, and searched 
him along the wind. He thought that the blue-eyed 



TEMORA. 457 

hunter slept ; he lay upon his shield. No blast came 
over the heath unknown to bounding Bran. 

Cathmor saw the white-breasted dog ; he saw the 
Droken shieid. Darkness is blown back on his soui ; 
/le remembers the falling away of the people. They 
«ame, a stream ; are rolled away ; another race suc- 
ceeds. But some mark the fields, as they pass, with 
iheir own mighty names. The heath, through dark- 
orown years, is theirs ; some blue stream winds to 
tlieir fame. Of these be the chief of Atha, when he 
lays him down on earth. Often may the voice of future 
umes meet Cathmor in the air ; when he strides from 
wind to wind, or folds himself in the wing of a storm. 

Green Erin gathered round the king to hear the 
foice of his power. Their joyful faces bend unequal, 
forward, in the light of the oak. They who were ter- 
rible, were removed ; Lubar winds again in their host, 
Cathmor was that beam from heaven, which shone 
when his people were dark. He was honored in the 
midst. Their souls arose Vvith ardor around. The 
king alone no gladness showed ; no stranger he to 
war ! 

" Why is the king so sad ?•" said Malthos, eagle- 
eyed. " Remains there a foe at Lubar ? Lives there 
among them who can lift the spear ? Not so peaceful 
was thy father, Borbar-duthul, king of spears. His 
rage was a fire that always burned : his joy over fallen 
foes was great. Three days feasted the gray-haired 
hero, when he heard that Calmar fell : Calmar who 
aided the race of Ullin, from Lara of the streams. 
Often did he feel, with his hands, the steel which they 
said had pierced his foe. He felt it with his hands, 
for Borbar-duthul's eyes had failed. Yet was the king 
a sun to his friends ; a gale to lift their branches 
round. Joy was around him in his halls : he loved 
the sons of Bolga. His name remains in Atha, like 
39 



458 THE POHMS OF OSSIAN. 

the awful memory of gliosis whose presence was ter- 
rible ; but they blew the storm away. Now let the 
voices of Erin* raise the soul of the king ; he that 
shone when war was dark, and laid the mighty low. 
Fonar, from that gray-browed rock pour the talc 
of other times : pour it on wide-skirted Erin, as it set 
ties round. 

" To me," said Cathmor, " no song shall rise ; nor 
Fonar sit on the rock of Lubar. The mighty tltere 
are laid low. Disturb not their rushing ghosts. Far, 
Malthos, far remove the sound of Erin's song. 1 re- 
joice not over the foe, when he ceases to lift the spear. 
With morning we pour our strength abroad. Fingal 
is wakened on his echoing hill/"' 

Like waves, blown back by sudden winds, Erin re- 
tired, at the voice of the king. Deep, rolled into the 
field of night, they spread their humming tribes. Be- 
neath his own tree, at intervals, each bard sat down 
with his harp. They raised the song, and touched the 
string : each to the chief he loved. Before a burning 
oak Sul-malla touched, at times, the harp. She touch- 
ed the harp, and heard, between, the breezes in her 
hair. In darkness near lay the king of Atha, beneath 
an aged tree. The beam of the oak was turned from 
him ; he saw the maid, but was not seen. His soul 
poured forth, in secret, when he beheld her fearful eye. 
'•But battle is before thee, son of Borbar-duthul." 

Amidst the harp, at intervals, she listened whether 
the warrior slept. Her soul was up ; she longed, in 
secret, to pour her own sad song. The field is silent. 
On their wings the blasts of night retire. The bards 
liad ceased ; and meteors came, red-winding with their 
ghosts. The sky grew dark : the forms of the dead 
were blended with the clouds. But heedless bends the 



A poetical expression for the bards of Ireland. 



TEMORA. 459 

daughter of Conmor, over the decaying flame. Thou 
wert alone in her soul, car-borne chief of Atha. She 
raised the voice of the song, and touched the harp 
between. 

" Clun-galo* came ; she missed the maid. Where 
art thou, beam of light ? Hunters from the mossy rock, 
saw ye the blue-eyed fair ? Are her steps on grassy 
Lumon ; near the bed of roes ? Ah, me ! I behold her 
bow in the hall. Where art thou, beam of light ? 

" Cease, love of Conmor, cease ! I hear thee not on 
the ridgy heath. My eye is turned to the king, whose 
path is terrible in war. He for whom my soul is up, 
in the season of my rest. Deep-bosomed in war he 
stands ; he beholds me not from his cloud. Why, sun 
of Sul-malla, dost thou not look forth? I dwell in 
darkness here : wide over me flics the shadowy mist. 
Filled with dew are my locks : look thou from thy 
cloud, O sun of Sul-malla's soul !" 

* Clun-galo, the wile of Conmor, king of Inis-huna, and the 
mother ot Sul-malla. She ia here represented as missing her 
daughter, after she had fled with Cathmor. 



BOOK VII. 



ARGUMENT. 



inis Doofe begins aoout the middle of the thifd night frorr. the 
opening of the poem. The poet describes a kind of mist, which 
rose by night fiom the Lake of Lego, and was the usual residence 
of the souls of the dead, during the interval between their de- 
cease and the funeral song. The appearance of the ghost of 
Fillan above the cave where his body lay. His voice comes to 
Fingal on the rock of Cormul. The king strikes the shield of 
Trenmor, which was an infallible sign of his appearing in arms 
himself The extraordinary eiiect of the sound of the shield. 
Sul-malla, starting from sleep, awakes Cathmor. Their afiecting 
discoui-se. She insists with him to sue for peace ; he resolyes 
to continue the war. He directs her to retire to the neighboring 
valley of Lona, which was the residence of an old Druid, until 
the battle of the next day should be over. He awakes his army 
with the sound of his shield. The shield described. Fonar, the 
bard, at the desire of Cathmor, relates the first settlement of the 
Fir-bolff in Ireland, under their leader Larthon. Morning comes. 
Sul-maTla retires to the valley of Lona. A lyric song concludes 
the book. 

From the wood-skirted waters of Lego ascend, at 
times, gray-bosomed mists ; when the gates of the west 
arc closed, on the sun's eagle eye. Vv^ide, over Lara's 
stream, is poured the vapor dark and deep : the moon, 
like a dim shield, lay swimmi-ng through its folds. 
With this, clothe the spirits of old their sudden gestures 
on the wind, when they stride, from blast to blast, along 
the dusky night. Often, blended with the gale, to 
some warrior's grave, they roll the mist a gray dwell- 
ing to his ghost, until the songs arise. 

A sound came from the desert ; it was Conar, king 
of Inis-fail. He poured his mist on the grave of Fillan, 
at blue-winding Lubar. Dark and mournful sat the 
ghost, in his gray ridge of smoke. The blast, at times, 
rolled him together ; but the form returned again. It 



TEMORA. 461 

returned with bending eyes, and dark winding of locks 
of mist. 

It was dark. The sleeping host were still in the 
skirts of night. The flame decayed, on the hill of 
Fingal ; the king lay lonely on his shield. His eyes 
were half clothed in sleep : the voice of Fillan came. 
" Sleeps the husband of Clatho ? Dwells the father 
of the fallen in rest ? Am I forgot in the folds of dark- 
ness ; lonely in the season of night ?" 

"Why dost thou mix," said the king, "with the 
dreams of my father ? Can I forget thee, my son, or 
thy path of fire in the field ? Not such come the deeds 
of the valiant on the soul of Fingal. They are not 
there a beam of lightning, which is seen and is then no 
more. I remember thee, O Fillan ! and my wrath be- 
gins to rise." 

The king took his deathful spear, and struck the 
deeply-sounding shield : his shield, that hung high in 
night, the dismal sign of war. Ghosts fled on eveiy 
side, and rolled their gathered forms on the wind. 
Thrice from the winding vales arose the voice of deaths. 
The harps of the bards, untouched, sound mournful 
over the hill. 

He struck again the shield ; battles rose in the 
dreams of his host. The wide-tumbling strife is gleam- 
ing over their souls. Blue-shielded kings descended to 
war. Backward-lool ing armies fly ; and mighty deeds 
are half hid in the b ight gleams of steel. 

But when the thiid sound arose, deer started from 
the clefts of their rocks. The screams of fowl are 
heard in the desert, as each flew frightened on his blast. 
The sons of Selma half rose and half assumed their 
spears. But silence rolled back on the host : they 
knew the shield of the king. Sleep returned to their 
eyes ; the field was dark and still. 

No sleep was thine in darkness, blue-eyed daughter 
39* 



462 THE roEMS or osyiAN. 

of Conmor ! Sul-malla heard the dreadful shield, and 
rose, amid the night. Her steps are towards the king 
of Atha. " Can danger shake his daring soul ?" In 
doubt, she stands with bending eyes. Heaven bums 
with all its stars. 

Again the shield resounds ! She rushed. She stopt. 
Her voice half rose. It failed. She saw him, amidst 
his arms, that gleamed to heaven's fire. She saw him 
dim in his locks, that rose to nightly wind. Away, for 
fear, she turned her steps. " Why should the king of 
Erin awake ? Thou art not a dream to his rest, 
daughter of Inis-huna." 

More dreadful rings the shield. Sul-malla starts. 
Her helmet falls. Loud echoes Lubar's rock, as over 
it rolls the steel. Bursting from the dreams of night, 
Cathmor half rose beneath his tree. He saw the form 
of the maid above him, on the rock. A red s"ar, with 
twinkling beams, looked through her floating hair. 

" Who comes through night to Cathmor in the sea- 
son of his dreams ? Bring'st thou aught of war 1 Who 
art thou, son of night ? Stand'st thou before me, a form 
of the times of old ? a voice from the fold of a cloud, 
to warn me of the danger of Erin?" 

" Nor lonely scout am I, nor voice from folded cloud,'' 
slie said, " but I warn thee of the danger of Erin. Dost 
thou hear that sound ? It is not the feeble, king of Atha, 
that rolls his signs on night." 

"Let the warrior roll his sit.ns," he replied, " lo 
Cathmor they are the sounds oi harps. My joy 13 
great, voice of night, and burns over all my thoughts. 
This is the music of kings, on lonely hills, by night ; 
when they light their daring souls, the sons of mighty 
deeds ! The feeble dwell alone, in the valley of the 
breeze ; where mists lift their morning skirts, from the 
blue-winding streams." 

" Not feeble, king of men, were they, the fathers of 



TKMUllA. 463 

my race. They dwelt in the folds of battle, in their 
distant lands. Yet delights not my soul in the signs 
of death ! He, who never yields, comes forth : O send 
the bard of peace !" 

Like a dropping rock in the desert, stood Cathmor in 
his tears. Her voice came, a breeze on his soul, and 
waked the memory of her land -, where she dwelt by 
her peaceful streams, before he came to the war of 
Conmor. 

'•' Daughter of strangers," he said, (she trcmbhng 
turned away,) " long have I marked thee in thy steel, 
young pine of Inis-huna. But my soul, I said, is folded 
in a storm. Why should tliat beam arise, till my steps 
return in peace ? Have I been pale in thy pi-esence, 
as thou bid'st me to fear the king '^ The time of danger, 
O maid, is the season of my soul ; for then it swells a 
mighty stream, and rolls me on the foe. 

" Beneath the moss-covered rock of Lona, near his 
own loud stream ; gray in his locks of age, dwells 
Clonmal king of harps. Above him is his echoing tree, 
a.nd the dun bounding of roes. The noise of our strife 
reaches his ear, as he bends in the thoughts of years. 
There let thy rest be, Sul-malla, until our battle cease. 
Until I return, in my arms, from the skirts of the even- 
ing mist, that rises on Lona, round the dwelling of my 
love." 

A light fell on the soul of the maid : it rose kindled 
before the king. She turned her face to Cathmor, from 
amidst her waving locks. " Sooner shall the eagle of 
licaven be torn from the stream of his roaring wind, 
when he sees the dun prey before him, the young sons 
of the bounding roe, than thou, O Cathmor, be turned 
from the strife of renown. Soon may I see thee, war- 
rior, from the skirls of the evening mist, when it is 
rolled around me, on Lona of the streams. While yet 
thou art disttuit far, strike, Cathmor, strike the shield, 



464 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

that joy may return to my darkened soul, as I lean on 
the mossy rock. But if thou shouldst fall, I am in the 
land of strangers ; O send thy voice from thy cloud, to 
the midst of Inis-huna !" 

" Young hranch of green^headed Lumon, why dost 
tlr ju shake in the storm ? Often has Cathmor returned, 
from darkly rolling wars. The darts of death are but 
hail to me ; they have often rattled along my shield. 
1 have risen brightened from battle, like a meteor from 
a stormy cloud. Return not, fair beam, from thy vale, 
when the roar of battle grows. Then might the foe 
escape, as from my fathers of old. 

" They told to Son-mor, of Clunar, who was slain 
by Cormac in light. Three days darkened Son-mor, 
over his brother's fall. His spouse beheld the silent 
king and foresaw his steps in war. She prepared the 
bow, in secret, to attend her blue-shielded hero. To 
her dwelt darkness at Atha, when he was not there. 
From their hundred streams, by night, poured down the 
sons of Alnecma. They had heard the shield of the 
king, and their rage arose. In clanging arms, they 
moved along towards Ullin of the groves. Son-mor 
struck his shield, at times the leader of the war. 

" Far behind followed Sul-allin, over the streamy 
hills. She was a light on the mountain, when they 
crossed the vale below. Her steps were stately on the 
vale, when they rose on the mossy hill. She feared to 
approach the king, who left her in echoing Atha. But 
when the roar of battle rose ; when host was rolled on 
host, when Son-mor burnt, like the fire of heaven in 
clouds, with her spreading hair came Sul-allin, for she 
trembled for her king. He stopt the rushing strife to 
save the love of heroes. The foe fled by night ; Clunar 
slept without his blood ; the blood which ought to be 
poured upon the warrior's tomb. 

" Nor rose the rage of Son-mor, but his days were 



TEMOKA. ^^ 

silent and dark. Sul-allin wandered by her gray 
stream, with her tearful eyes. Often did she look on 
the hero, when he was folded in his thouglits. But she 
shrunk from his eyes, and turned her lu.ie steps away. 
Battles rose, like a tempest, and drove the mist from 
his soul. He beheld with joy her steps in the hall, 
and the white rising of her hands on the harp." 

In his arms strode the chief of Atha, to where his 
shield hung, high, in night : high on a mossy bough 
over Lubar's streamy roar. Seven bosses rose on the 
shield ; the seven voices of the king, which his warriors 
received, from the wind, and marked over all the tribes. 

On each boss is placed a star of night : Canmathon 
with beams unshorn ; Col-derna rising from a cloud ; 
U-loicho robed in mist ; and the soft beam of Cathlin 
glittering on a rock. Smiling, on its own blue wave, 
Rel-durath half sinks its western light. The red eye 
of Berthin looks, through a grove, on the hunter, as he 
returns, by night, with the spoils of the bounding roe. 
Wide, in the midst, rose the cloudless beams of Ton- 
thena, that star, which looked by night on the course 
of the sea-tossed Larthon : Larthon, the first of Bolga's 
race, who travelled on the winds. White-bosomed 
spread the sails of the king, towards streamy Inis-fail ; 
dun night was rolled before him, with its skirts of mist. 
Unconstant blew the winds, and rolled him from wave 
to wave. Then rose the fiery-haired Ton-thena, and 
smiled from her parted cloud. Larthon blessed the 
well-known beam, as it faint gleamed on the deep. 

Beneath the spear of Cathmor rose that voice which 
awakes the bards. They came, dark winding from 
every side : each with the sound of his harp. Before 
him rejoiced the king, as the traveller, in the day of the 
sun ; when he hears, far rolling around, the murmur 
of mossy streams : streams that burst in the desert, 
from the rock of roes. 



466 THE rOEMS OF OSolA^. 

"Why," said Fonar, "hear we the voice of the king, 
in the season of his rest ? Were the dim forms of thy 
fathers bending in thy dreams ? Perhaps they stand on 
that cloud, and wait for Fonar's song ; often they come 
to the fields where their sons arc to Hft the spear. Or 
shi.ll our voice arise for him who Hits the spear no more ; 
h€ that consumed the field, from Momiaof the groves ?" 

" Not forgot is that cloud in war, bard of other times. 
High shall his tomb rise, on Moi-lena, the dwelling of 
renown. But, now, roll back my soul to the times of 
my fathers : to the years when first they rose, on Inis- 
huna's waves. Nor alone pleasant to Cathmor is the 
remembrance of wood-covered Lumon. Lumon of the 
streams, the dwelling of white-bosomed maids." 

" Lumon* of the streams, thou risest on Fonar's 
soul ! Thy sun is on thy side, on the rocks of thy 
bending trees. The dun roe is seen from thy furze ; 
the deer lifts its branchy head ; for he sees, at times, 
the hound on the half-covered heath. Slow, on the 
vale, are the steps of maids ; the white-armed daughters 
of the bow : they lift their blue eyes to the hill, from 
amidst their wandering locks. Not there is the stride 
of Larthon, chief of Inis-huna. lie mounts the wave 
on his own dark oak, in Cluba's ridgy bay. That oak 
which he cut from Lumon, to bound along the sea. 
The maids turn their eyes away, lest the king should 
be lowly laid ; for never had they seen a ship, dark 
rider of the wave ! 

" Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix with 
the mist of ocean. Blue Inis-fail rose, in smoke ; but 
dark-skirted night came down. The sons of Bolga 
feared. The fiery-haired Ton-thena rose. Culbin's 
bay received the ship, in the bosom of its echoing 
woods. There issued a stream from Duthuma's horrid 

♦ A hill, in Inis-huna. near the residence of Sul-malla. 



ff^MORA. 467 

cave ; where spirits gleanied, at times, with their half- 
linished forms. 

"Dreams descended on Larthon : he saw seven spirits 
of his fathers. He heard their half-formed words, 
and dimly heheld the times to come. He beheld the 
kings of Atha, the sons of future days. They led their 
hosts along the field, like ridges of mist, which winds 
pour in autumn, over Atha of the groves. 

" Larthon raised the hall of Semla. to the music of 
the harp. He went forth to the roes of Erin, to their 
wonted streams. Nor did he forget green-headed Lu- 
men ; he often bounded over his seas, to where white- 
handed Flathal looked from the hill of roes. Lumon 
of the foamy streams, thou risest on Fonar's soul !" 

Mourning pours from the east. The misty heads of 
tlic mountains rise. Valleys show, on every side, the 
gray winding of the streams. His host heard the 
shield of Cpdlimor : at once they rose around ; like a 
crowded sea, when first it feels the wings of the wind. 
The waves know not whither to roll; they lift their 
troubled heads. 

Sad and slow retired Sul-malla to Lona of the streams. 
She went, and often turned ; her blue eyes rolled in 
tears. But when she came to the rock, that darkly 
covered Lena's vale, she looked, from her bursting 
soul, on the king; and sunk, at once, behind. 

Son of Alpin, strike the string. Is there aught of 
joy in the harp ? Pour it then on the soul of Ossian : it 
is folded in mist. I hear thee, O bard ! in my night. 
But cease the lightly-trembling sound. The joy of 
grief belongs to Ossian, amidst his dark-brown 
years. 

Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest thy 
head to nightly winds ! I hear no sound in thee ; is 
there no spirit's windy skirt now rustling in thy leaves? 
Often are the steps of the dead, in the dark-eddy- g 



468 THE FOEMS OF OSSIAN, 

blasts ; when the moon, a dun shield, from the east 13 
rolled along the sky. 

Ullin, Carril, and Ryno, voices of the days of old ! 
Let me hear you, while yet it is dark, to please and 
awake my soul. I hear you not, ye sons of song; in 
what hall of the clouds is your rest ? Do you touch the 
shadowy harp, robed with morning mist, where the 
rustling sun comes forth from his green-headed waves ? 



BOOK VIII. 

ARGUMENT. 

The fourth morning, from the opening of the poem, comes on. 
Fingal, still continuing in the place to which he had retired on 
the preceding night, is seen, at intervals, through the mist which 
covered the rock of Cormul. The descent of the king is de- 
scribed. He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard, to go to 
the valley of Cluna, and conduct from thence the Caledonian 
army, Ferad-artho, the son of Cairbar, the only person remain- 
ing of the family of Conar, the first king of Ireland. The king 
takes the command of the army, and prepares for battle. March- 
ing towards the enemy, he comes to the cave of Lubar, where 
the body of Fillan lay. Upon seeing his dog,. Bran, who lay at 
the entrance of the cave, his grief returns. Cathmor arranges the 
Irish army in order of battle." The appearance of that hero. The 
general conflict is described. The actions of Fingal and Cathmor. 
A storm. The total rout of the Fir-bolg. The two kings engage, 
in a column of mist, on the banks of Lubar. Their attuude and 
conference after the combat. The death of Cathmor. Fingal re- 
signs the spear of Trenmor to Ossian. The ceremonies observed 
on that occasion. The spirit of Cathmor, in the mean time, ap- 
pears to Sul-malla, in the valley of Lona. Her sorrow. Evening 
comes on. A feast is prepared. The coming of Ferad-artho is 
announced by the songs of a hundred bards. The poem closes 
with a speech of Fingal. 

As when the wintry winds have seized the waves of 
the mountain lake, have seized them in stormy night, 
and clothed them over with ice ; white to the hunter's 
early eye, the hillows still seem to roll. He turns his 
ear to the sound of each unequal ridge. But each is 
silent, gleaming, .strewn with boughs, and tufts of grass, 
which shake and whistle to ihe wind, over their gray 
seats of frost. So silent shone to the morning the 
ridges of Morven's host, as each warrior looked up 
from his helmet towards the hill of the king ; the cloud- 
coverfid hill of Fingal, where he strode in the folds of 
mist. .A.t times is the hero seen, greatly dim in all his 
arms. From thought to thought rolled the war, along 
his mighty soul. 

40 



170 THE rOEMS OF O^SIAN. 

Now is the coming forth of the king. First ap- 
peared the sword of Luno ; the spear half issuing from 
a cloud, the shield still dim in mist. But when the 
stride of the king came abroad, with all his gray dewy 
locks in the wind ; then rose the shouts of his host 
over every moving tribe. They gathered, gleaming, 
round, with all their echoing shields. So rise the green 
seas round a spirit, that comes down from the squally 
wind. The traveller hears the sound afar, and lifts his 
head over the rock. He looks on the troubled bay, 
and thinks he dimly sees the form. The waves sport, 
unwieldy, round, with all their backs of foam. 

Far distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno's race, 
and Cona's bard. We stood far distant ; each beneath 
his tree. We shunned the eyes of the king : we had 
not conquered in the field. A little stream rolled at 
my feet : I touched its light wave, with my spear. I 
touched it with my spear : nor there was the soul of 
Ossian. It darkly rose, from thought to thought, and 
sent abroad the sigh. 

" Son of Morni," said the king, " Dermid, hunter of 
roes ! why are ye dark, like two rocks, each with its 
trickling waters ? No wrath gathers on Fingal's soul, 
against the chiefs of men. Ye are my strength in 
battle ; the kindling of my joy in peace. My early 
voice has been a pleasant gale to your years, when 
Fillan prepared the bow. The son of Fingal is not 
here, nor yet the chase of the bounding rocs. But 
why should the breakers of shields stand, darkened, far 
away V 

Tall they strode towards the king : they saw him 
turned to Mora's wind. His tears came down for his 
blue-eyed son, who slept in the cave of streams. But 
he brightened before them, and spoke to the broad- 
shielded kings. 

" Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top, the 



TEMOKA. 471 

field of winds, pours fcrth, to th(3 sight, blue Lubar'a 
streamy roar. Behind it rolls clear-winding Lavath, 
in the still vale of deer. A cave is dark in a rock; 
above it strong-winged eagles dwell ; broad-headed 
oaks, before it, sound in Cluna's wind. Within, in his 
locks of youth, is Ferad-artho, blue-eyed king, the son 
of broad-shielded Cairbar, from Ullin of the roes. He 
listens to the voice ofCondan, as gray he bends in 
feeble light. He listens, for his foes dwell in the echo- 
ing halls of Temora. He comes, at times, abroad in 
tlie skirts of mist, to pierce the bounding roes. When 
the sun looks on the field, nor by the rock, nor stream, 
is he ! He shuns the race of Bolga, who dwell in his 
f.uhcr's hall. Tell him, that Fingal lifts the spear, and 
that his foes, perhaps, may fail. 

" Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch, 
Derrnid, Tcmora's spear. Be thy voice in his ear, O 
Carril, with the deeds of his fathers. Lead him to 
green Moi-lena, to the dusky field of ghosts ; for there, 
1 fall forward, in battle, in the folds of war. Before 
dun night descends, come to high Dunmora's top. 
[yook, from the gray skirts of mist, on Lena of the 
streams. If there my standard shall float on wind, 
over Lubnr's gleaming stream, then has not Fingal 
failed in the last of his fields." 

Such were his words ; nor aught replied the silent 
striding kings. They looked sidelong on Erin's host, 
and darkened as they went. Never before had they 
left the king, in the midst of the stormy field. Behind 
them, touching at times his harp, the gray-haired Car- 
ril moved. He foresaw the fall of the people, and 
mournful was the sound ! It was like a breeze that 
comes, by fits, over Lego's reedy lake ; when sleep 
half descends on the hunter, within his mossy cave. 

" Why bends the bard of Cona," said Fingal, "over 
Ills secret stream ? Is this a time for sorrow, father of 



472 THE roEMS OF OSblAN. 

low-laid Oscar ? Be the warriors remembered in peace ; 
when echoing shields are heard no more. Bend, then, 
in grief, over the flood, where blows the mountain 
breeze. Let them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed 
dwellers of the tomb. But Erin rolls to war -, wide 
tumbling, rough, and dark. Lift, Ossian, lift the shield. 
I am alone, my son !" 

As comes the sudden voice of winds to the becalmed 
ship of Inis-huna, and drives it large, along the deep, 
dark rider of the wave ; so the voice of Fingal sent 
Ossian, tall along the heath. He lifted high his shi- 
ning shield, in the dusky wing of war ; like the broad, 
blank moon, in the skirt of a cloud, before the storms 
arise. 

Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down, at 
once, the broad-winged war. Fingal led his people 
forth, king of Morven of streams. On high spreads 
the eagle's wing. His gray hair is poured on his 
shoulders broad. In thunder are his mighty strides. 
He often stood, and saw, behind, the wide-gleaming 
rolling of armor. A rock he seemed, gray over with 
ice, whose woods are high in wind. Bright streams 
leapt from its head, and spread their foam on blasts. 

Now he came to Lubar's cave, where Fillan darkly 
slept. Bran still lay on the broken shield : the eagle- 
wing is strewed by the winds. Bright, from withered 
furze, looked forth the hero's spear. Then grief 
stirred the soul of the king, like whirlwinds blackening 
on a lake. He turned his sudden step, and leaned on 
his bending spear. 

White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy to the 
known path of Fingal. He came, and looked towards 
the cave, where the blue-eyed hunter lay, for fie was 
wont to stride, with morning, to the dewy bed of thf^ 
roe. It was then the tears of the king came down, 
and all his soul was dark. But as the rising wind roll^ 



TEMORA. 473 

away the storm of rain, and leaves the white streams 
to the sun, and high hills with their heads of grass ; so 
the returning war brightened the mind of Fingal. He 
bounded, on his spear, over Lubar, and struck his echo- 
ing shield. His ridgy host bend forward, at once, 
with all their pointed steel. 

Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound : wide they 
come rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the wing of 
war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next rose 
that beam of light, Hidalla ! then the sidelong-looking 
gloom of Maronnan. Blue-shielded Clonar lifts the 
spear : Cormar shakes his bushy locks on the wind. 
Slowly, from behind a rock, rose the bright form of 
Atha. First appeared his two-pointed spears, then the 
half of his burnished shield : like the rising of a nightly 
meteor, over the valley of ghosts. But when he shone 
all abroad, the hosts plunged, at once, into strife. The 
gleaming waves of steel are poured on either side. 

As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all 
their waves, when they feel the wings of contending 
winds, in the rock-sided frith of Lumon ; along the 
echoing hills in the dim course of ghosts : from the 
blast fall the torn groves on the deep, amidst the foamy 
l)ath of whales. So mixed the hosts ! Now Fingal ; 
now Cathmor came abroad . The dark tumbling of death 
is before them : the gleam of broken steel is rolled on 
iheir steps, as, loud, the high-bounding kings hewed 
down the ridge of shields. 

Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a stream. 
The waters gathered by his side, and leapt gray over 
liis bossy shield. Clonar is pierced by Cathmor; nor 
yet lay the chief on earth. An oak seized his hair in 
Ids fall. His helmet rolled on the ground. By its 
thong, hung his broad shield ; over it wandered his 
streaming blood. Tla-min shall weep, in the hall, and 
strike her heaving breast. 

40* 



474 THE roEMs of ossian. 

Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of Lis 
war. He strewed the field with dead. Young Hidal la 
came. " Soft voice of streamy Clonra ! why dost th )U 
lift the steel ? O that we met in the strife of song, in 
thine own rushy vale !" Malthos beheld him low, and 
darkened as he rushed along. On either side of a 
stream, we bent in the echoing strife. Heaven comes 
rolling down ; around burst the voices of squally winds. 
Hills are clothed, at times, in fire. Thunder rolls in 
wreaths of mist. In darkness shrunk the foe : Mt>r- 
ven's warriors stood aghast. Still I bent over the 
stream, amidst my whistling locks. 

Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the 
flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in lightning, 
darkly striding in his might. I struck my echoing 
shield, and hung forward on the st^ps of Alnecma ; the 
foe is rolled before me, like a wreath of smoke. 

The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred 
streams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rose the blue columns 
of mist, against the glittering hill. Where are the 
mighty kings ? Nor by that stream, nor wood, are they ! 
I hear the clang of arms ! Their strife is in the bosom 
of that mist. Such is the contending of spirits in a 
nightly cloud, when they strive for the wintry wings 
of winds, and the rolling of the foam-covered waves. 

I rushed along. The gray mist rose. Tall, gleam- 
ing, they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned against a 
rock. His half-fallen shield received the stream, that 
leapt from the moss above. Towards him is the stride 
of Fingal : he saw the hero's blood. His sword fell 
slowly to his side. He spoke, amidst his darkening joy. 

"Yields the race of Borbar-duthal ? Or still does 
he lift the spear 1 Not unheard is thy name, at Atha, 
in the green dwelling of strangers. It has come, like 
the breeze of his desert, to the ear of Fingal. Come 
to my hill of feasts ; the mighty fail, ut times. No fire 



TEMORA. 475 

am I to low-laid foes ; I rejoice not over the fall of the 
brave. To close the wound is mine : I have known 
the herbs of the hills. I seized their fair heads, on 
high, as they waved b}^ their secret streams. Thou 
art dark and silent, king of Atha of strangers !" 

"By Atha of the stream," he said, "there rises a 
mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of boughs, 
within the course of winds. Dark, in its face, is a 
cave, wdth its own loud rill. There have I heard the 
tread of strangers, when they passed to my hall of 
shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my soul ; I blest 
the echoing rock. Here be my dwelling, in darkness; 
in my grassy vale. From this I shall mount the breeze, 
that pursues my thistle's beard ; or look down on blue- 
winding Atha, from its wandering mist.'' 

" Why speaks the king of the tomb ? Ossian, the 
warrior has failed ! Joy meet thy soul, like a stream, 
Calhmor friend of strangers ! My son, I hear the call 
of years; they take my spear as they pass along. 
Wliv does not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within 
his hall ? Dost thou always delight in blood ? In the 
tears of the sad ? No ; ye dark-rolling years, Fingal 
delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that 
waste away my soul. But when I lie down to rest, 
then comes the mighty voice of war. It awakes me in 
my hall and calls forth all my steel. It shall call it 
forth no more ; Ossian, take thou thy father's spear. 
Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise. 

" iMy fathers, Ossian, trace my steps ; my deeds are 
pleasant to their eyes. Wherever I come forth to bat- 
tle, on my field, are their columns of mist. But mine 
arm rescued the feeble ! the haughty found my rage 
was fire. Never over the fallen did mine eye rejoice. 
For this, my fathers shall meet me, at the gates of their 
airy halls, tall, with robes of light, with mildly-kindled 
eyes. But to the })roud in arms, they are darkened 



476 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

moons in heaven, which send the fire of night red 
wandering over their face. 

" Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddying 
winds, I give thy spear to Ossian : let thine eye rejoice. 
Thee have I seen, at times, bright from between thy 
clouds ; so appear to my son, when he is to lift the 
spear : then shall he remember thy mighty deeds, though 
thou art now but a blast." 

He gave the spear to my hand, and raised at once a 
stone on high, to speak to future times, with its gray 
head of moss. Beneath he placed a sword in earth, 
and one bright boss from his shield. Dark in thought 
awhile he bends : his words at length came forth. 

" When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down, and lose 
thee in the moss of years, then shall the traveller come, 
and whistling pass away. Thou knowest not, feeble 
man, that fame once shone on Moi-lena. Here Fingal 
resigned his spear, after the last of his fields. P;;; s 
away, thou empty shade ! in thy voice there is no j o 
nown. Thou dwellest by some peaceful stream ; yet 
a few years, and thou art gone. No one remembers 
thee, thou dweller of thick mist ! But Fingal shall be 
clothed with fame, a beam of light to other times ; for 
he went forth, with echoing steel, to save the weak in 
arms." 

Brightening, in his fame, the king strode to Lubar's 
sounding oak, where it bent, from its rock, over the 
bright tumbling stream. Beneath it is a narrow plain, 
and the sound of the fount of the rock. Here the 
standard of Morven poured its wreaths on the wind, to 
mark the way of Ferad-artho from his secret vale. 
Bright, from his parted west, the son of heaven looked 
abroad. The hero saw his people, and heard their 
shouts of joy. In broken ridges round, they glittered 
to the beam. The king rejoiced, as a hunter in his 
own green vale, wheu; after the storm is rolled away, 



y 



i#7 



/ .W^, 




V 






^ <-^ - 







\ 




TEMORA. 477 

he sees the gleaming sides of the rocks. The green 
thorn shakes its head in their face j from their top look 
forward the roes. 

Gray, at his mossy cave, is bent the aged form of 
Cionmal. The eyes of the bard nad failed. He lean- 
ed forward on his staff. Bright in her locks, before 
him, Sul-malla listened to the tale ; the tale of the kings 
of Atha, in the days of old. The noise of battle had 
ceased in his ear : he stopt and raised the secret sigh. 
The spirits of the dead, they said, often lightened along 
his soul. He saw the king of Atha low, beneath his 
bending tree. 

" Why art thou dark ?" said the maid. " The strife 
of arms is past. Soon shall he come to thy cave, over 
thy winding streams. The sun looks from the rocks 
of the west. The mists of the lake arise. Gray they 
spread on that hill, the rushy dwelling of roes. From 
the mist shall my king appear ! Behold, he comes in 
his arms. Come to the cave of Cionmal, O my best 
beloved !" 

It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a gleam- 
ing form.. He sunk by the hollow stream, that roared 
between the hills. " It was but the hunter," she said, 
" who searches for the bed of the roe. His steps are 
not forth to war ; his spouse expects him with night. 
He shall, whistling, return with the spoils of the dark- 
brown hinds." Her eyes were turned to the hill; 
again the stately form came down. She rose in the 
midst of joy. He retired again in mist. Gradual 
vanish his limbs of smoke, and mix with the mountain 
wind. Then she knew that he fell ! " King of Erin, 
art thou low !" Let Ossian forget her grief; it wastes 
the soul of age. 

Evening came down on Moi-lena. Gray rolled the 
streams of the land. Loud came forth the voice of 
Fingal : the beam of oaks arose. The people gathered 



478 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

round with gladness, with gladness blended with shades. 
They sidelong looked to the king, and beheld his un. 
finished joy. Pleasant from the way of the desert, the 
voice of music came. It seemed, at first, the noise of 
a stream, far distant on its rocks. Slow it rolled along 
the hill, like the ruffled wing of a breeze, when it takes 
the tufted beard of the rocks, in the still season of night. 
It was the voice of Condon, mixed with Carril's trem- 
bling harp. They came, with blue-eyed Ferad-artho, 
to Mora of the streams. 

Sudden bursts the song from our bards, on Lena : 
the host struck their shields midst the sound. Gladness 
rose brightening on the king, like the beam of a cloudy 
day, when it rises on the green hill, before the roar of 
winds. He struck the bossy shield of kings ; at once 
they cease around. The people lean forward, from 
*heir spears, towards the voice of their land. 

"Sons of Morven, spread the feast; send the night 
away in song. Ye have shone around me, and the 
dark storm is past. My people are the windy rocks, 
from which I spread my eagle wings, when I rush forth 
to renown, and seize it on its field. Ossian, thou hast 
the spear of Fin gal ; it is not the staff of a boy with 
which he strews the thistles round, young wanderer of 
the field. No : it is the lance of the mighty, with 
which thoy stretched forth their hands to death. Look 
to thy fathers, my son ; they are awful beams. With 
morning lead Ferad-artho forth to the echoing halls of 
Tcmora. Remind him of the kings of Erin : the 
stately forms of old. Let not the fallen be forgot: 
they were mighty in the field. Let Carril pour his 
song, that the kings may rejoice in their mist. To- 
morrow I spread my sails to Selma's shaded walls : 
where streamy Duth-ula winds through the seats of 
roes." 



CONLATH AND CUTHONA. 

ARGUMENT. 

Conlatli was the youngest of Momi's sons, and brother to the ce»!e. 
brated Gaul. He was in love with Cuthona, the daughter oi 
llumar^ when Toscar, the son of Kent'ena, accompanied by Fer- 
cuth his friend, arrived from Ireland, at Mora, where Conlath 
dwflt. He was hospitablv received, and according to the cus- 
tom of the times, feasted three days with Conlath. On the fourth 
he set sail, and coasting the island of waves, one of the^Hebrides, 
he saw Cuthona huntins, fell in love with her, and carried her 
away, by tbrce, in his sTiip. He was forced, by stress of wea- 
iher, into I-thona, a desert isle. In the mean time Conlath hear- 
ing of the rape, sailed after him, and found him on the point of 
sailing for the coast of Ireland. They fought : and they and 
their Ibllowers fell by mutual wounds. Cuthona did not long 
survive : for she died of s;rief the third day after. Fingal hear- 
ing of their unfortimate death, sent Stormal the son of Sloran to 
bury them, but forgot to send a bard to sing the funeral song over 
their tombs. The ghost of Conlath comes long after to Ossian, 
to entreat him to transmit to posterity, his and Guthona's fame. 
For it was the opinion of the times, that the souls of the deceased 
were not happy, till their elegies were composed by a bard. 

Did not Ossian hear a voice ? or is it the sound of 
days that are no more ? Often does the memory of 
former times come, hke the evening sun, on my soul. 
The noise of the chase is renewed. In thought, I hft 
the spear. But Ossian did hear a voice ! Who art 
thou, son of night ? The children of the feeble are 
asleep. The midnight wind is in my hall. Perhaps 
it is the shield of Fingal that echoes to the blast. It 
hangs inOssian's hall. He feels it sometimes with his 
hands. Yes, I hear thee, my friend ! Long has thy 
voice been absent from mine ear ! What brings thee, 
on thy cloud, to Ossian, son of generous Morni ? Are 
the friends of the aged near thee ? Where is Oscar, 
soil of fame ? He was often near thee, O Coiirlath, 
when the sound of battle arose. 



480 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

Ghost of ConJath. Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona, 
in the midst of his rustling liall ? Sleeps Ossian in his 
hall, and his friends without their fame ? The sea 
rolls round dark I-thona. Our tombs are not seen in 
our isle. How long shall our fame be unheard, son 
of resounding Selma ? 

Ossian. O that mine eyes could behold thee ! Thou 
sittest, dim on thy cloud ! Art thou like the mist of 
Lano ? An half-extinguished meteor of fire ? Of 
what are the skirts of thy robe ? Of what is thine 
airy bow ? He is gone on his blast like the shade of 
a wandering cloud. Come from thy wall, O harp ! 
Let me hear thy sound. Let the light of memory rise 
on Lthona ! Let me behold again my friends ! And 
Ossian does behold his friends, on the dark-blue 
isle. The cave of Thona appears, with its mossy 
rocks and bending trees. A stream roars at its mouth. 
Toscar bends over its course. Fercuth is sad by his 
side. Cuthona sits at a distance and weeps. Does the 
wind of the waves deceive me ? Or do I hear them 
speak ? 

Toscar. The niglit was stormy. From their hills 
the groaning oaks came down. The sea darkly turn- 
bled beneath the blast. The roaring waves climbed 
against our rocks. The lightning came often and 
showed the blasted fern. Fercuth ! I saw the ghost 
who embroiled the night. Silent he stood, on that 
bank. His robe of mist flew on the wind. I could 
behold his tears. An aged man he seemed, and full of 
thought ! 

Fercuth. It was thy father, O Toscar. He fore- 
sees some death among his race. Such was his ap- 
pearance on Cromla before the great Maronnan fell. 
Erin of hills of grass ! how pleasant are thy vales ! 
Silence is near thy blue streams. The sun is on thy 
fields. Soft is the sound of the harp in Selama. Love. 



CONLATH AND CUTHONA. 481 

ly the cry of the hunter on Cromla. But we are 
in dark I-thona, surrounded by the storm. The bil- 
lows lift their white heads above our rocks. We trem- 
ble amidst the night. 

Toscar. Whither is the soul of battle fled, Fer- 
cuth, with locks of age ? I have seen thee undaunted 
in danger : thine eyes burning with joy in the fight. 
Whither is the soul of battle fled ? Our fathers never 
feared. Go ; view the settling sea : the stormy wind 
is laid. The billows still tremble on the deep. They 
seem to fear the blast. Go ; view the settling sea. 
Morning is gray on our rocks. The sun will look soon 
from his east ; in all his pride of light ! I lifted up my 
sails with joy, before the halls of generous Conlath. 
My course was by a desert isle : where Cuthona pur- 
sued the deer. I saw her, like that beam of the sun 
that issues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heav- 
ing breast. She, bending forward, drew the bow. Her 
white arm seemed, behind her, like the snow of Crom- 
la. Come to my soul, I said, huntress of the desert 
isle ! But she wastes her time in tears. She thinks 
of the generous Conlath. Where can I find thy peace, 
Cuthona, lovely maid ? 

Cuthona, A distant steep bends over the sea, with 
aged trees and mossy rocks. The billow rolls at its 
feet. On its side is the dwelling of roes. The people 
call it Mora. There the towers of my love arise. 
There Conlath looks over the sea for his only love. 
The daughters of the chase returned. He beheld their 
downcast eyes. " Where is the daughter of Rumar ?" 
But they answered not. My peace dwells on Mora, 
son of the distant land ! 

Toscar. Cuthona shall return to her peace : to the 
towers of generous Conlath. He is the friend of Tos- 
car ! I have feasted in his halls ! Rise, ye gentle 
breezes of Erin. Stretch my sails towards Mora's 
41 



482 THE rOEMS OF OSSIAN. 

shores. Cuthona shall rest on Mora ; but the days of 
Toscar must be sad. I shall sit in my cave in the field 
of the sun. The blast will rustle in my trees, I shall 
think it is Cuthona's voice. But she is distant far, in 
the halls of the mighty Conlath ! 

Cuthona. Ha ! what cloud is that ? It carries the 
ghost of my fathers. I see the skirts of their robes, 
like gray and watery mist. When shall I fall, O Ru- 
mar ? Sad Cuthona foresees her death. Will not 
Conlath behold me, before I enter the narrow house ? 

Ossian. He shall behold thee, O maid ! He comes 
along the heaving sea. The death of Toscar is dark 
on his spear. A wound is in his side ! He is pale at 
the cave of Thona. He shows his ghastly woiuid. 
VVliere art thou with thy tears, Cuthona ? The chief 
of Mora dies. The vision grows dim on my mind. I 
behold the chiefs no more ! But, O ye bards of future 
times, remember the fall of Conlath with tears. He 
fell before his day. Sadness darkened in his hall. His 
mother looked to hi^ shield on the wall, and it was 
bloody. She knew tliat her hero fell. Her sorrow 
was heard on Mora. Art thou pale on thy rock, Cu- 
thona, beside the fallen chiefs ? Night comes, and day 
returns, but none appears to raise their tomb. Thou 
frightenest the screaming fowls away. Thy tears for 
ever flow. Thou art pale as a watery cloud, that rises 
from a lake. 

The sons of green Selma came. They found Cu- 
thona cold. They raised a tomb over the heroes. She 
rests at the side of Conlath ! Come not to my dreams, 
O Conlath ! Thou hast received thy fame. Be thy 
voice far distant from my hall ; that sleep may descend 
at night. O that I could forget my friends ; till my 
footsteps should cease to be seen ; till I come among 
them with joy ! and lay my aged limbs in the narrow 
house ! 



BERRATHON. 



ARGUMENT. 



Fingal, ii; \ is vovage to Lochlin, whither he had .been invited by 
Starno, ihe latlier of Agandecca, touched at Berrathon, an island 
of Scandinavia, where he was kindly entertained by Larthmor, 
the petty king of the place, who was a vassal of the supreme 
kings of Lochlin. The hospitality of Larthmor gained him Fiu- 
gal'a friendship, which that hero manifested, after the iinprison- 
ment of Larthmor by his ov/n son, by sending Ossian and Toscar, 
the father of Malvina, so often mentioned, to rescue Larthmor, 
and to pLmi:?h the unnatural behavior of Uthal. Uthal was hand- 
t^ome, and, by the ladies, jTiuch admired. Nina-thoma, the beau- 
litul daughter of Tor-thoma, a neighboring prince, fell in love 
and fled with him. He proved inconstant ; for another lady, 
whose name is not mentioned, gaining his infections, he confined 
Nina-thoma to a desert island, riear the coast of Berrathon. She 
was relieved by Ossian, who, in company with Toscar, landing 
on Berrathon, defeated the forces of Uthal, and killed him in 
single combat. Nina-thoma, whose love not all the bad beha« 
vior of Uthal could erase, hearing of his death, died of grief. In 
the mean time Larthmor is restored, and Ossian and Toscar re- 
turn in triumph to Fingal. 

The poem opens with an elegy on the death of Malvina, the daugh- 
ter of Toscar, and closes with the presages of Ossian's death, 

Bend th)^ blue course, O strcLim ! round the narrow 
plain of Lutha. Let the green woods hang over it, 
from their hills; the sun look on it at noon. Tlie 
thistle is there on its rock, and shtikes its beard to the 
vvii^.d. The flower hangs its heavy head, waving, at 
times, to the gale. " VVhy dost thou awake me, O 
gale ?" it seems to say : " I am covered with the drops 
of heaven. The time of my fading is near, the blast 
that shall scatter my leaves. To-morrow shall the 
traveller come ; he that saw me in my beauty shall 
come. His eyes will search the field, but they will 
not find me."" So shall they search in vain for the 
voice of Cona, after it has failed in the field. The 



484 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

hunter shall come forth in the morning, and the voice 
of my harp shall not be heard. " Where is the son 
of car-borne Fingal ?" The tear will be on his cheek t 
Then come thou, O Malvina ! with all thy music, come ! 
Lay Ossian in the plain of Lutha : let his tomb rise in 
the lovely field. 

Malvina ! where art thou, with thy songs ; with the 
soft sound of thy steps ? Son of Alpin, art thou near ? 
where is the daughter of Toscar ? "I passed, O son 
of Fingal, by Torlutha's mossy walls. The smoke of 
the hall was ceased. Silence was among the trees of 
the hill. The voice of the chase was over. I saw the 
daughters of the bow. I asked about Malvina, but they 
answered not. They turned their faces away : thin 
darkness covered their beauty. They were like stars, 
on a rainy hill, by night, each looking faintly throiifrli 
the mist !" 

Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely beam ! soon hast lliou 
set on our hills ! The steps of thy departure wore 
stately, like the moon, on the blue-trembling wave. 
But thou hast left us in darkness, first of the maids of 
Lutha ! We sit, at the rock, and there is no voice ; 
no light but the meteor of fire ! Soon hast thou set, 
O Malvina, daughter of generous Toscar ! But thou 
risest, like the beam of the east, among the spirits of 
thy friends, where they sit, in their stormy halls, the 
chambers of the thunder ! A cloud hovers over Cona, 
Its blue curling sides are high. The winds are beneath 
it, with their wings. Within it is the dwelling of Fin- 
gal. There the hero sits in darkness. His airy spear 
is in his hand. His shield, half covered with clouds, 
is like the darkened moon ; when one half still remains 
in the wave, and the other looks sickly on the field ! 

His friends sit round the king, on mist ! They hear 
the songs of Ullin ; he strikes the half-viewless harp. 
He raises the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a 



BERRATHON. 485 

thousand meteors, liglit the airy hall, Malvina rises 
in the midst : a blush is on her cheek. She beholds 
the unlvnovvn faces of her fathers. She turns aside her 
humid eyes. " Art thou come so soon," said Fingal, 
'• daughter of generous Toscar ! Sadness dwells in 
the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad ! I hear the 
breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. 
It comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice 
is mournful among the arms of thy fathers ! Go, with 
thy rustling wing, O breeze ! sigh on Malvina's tomb. 
It rises yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of 
Lutha. The maids* are departed to their place. Thou 
alone, breeze, mournest there !" 

But who comes from the dusky west, supported on a 
cloud ?^ A smile is on his gray, watery face. His 
locks of mist fly on wind. He bends forward on his 
airy spear. It is thy father, Malvina ! " Why shinest 
thou, so soon, on our clouds," he says, " O lovely light 
of Lutha ? But thou wert sad, my daughter. Thy 
friends had passed away. The sons of little men were 
in the hall. None remained of the heroes, but Ossian, 
king of spears !" 

And dost thou remember Ossian, car-borne Toscar, 
son of Conloch ? The battles of our youth were many. 
Our swords went together to the field. They saw us 
coming like two falling rocks. The sons of the stran- 
ger fled. " There come the warriors of Cona !" they 
said. " Their steps are in the paths of the flying !" 
Draw near, son of Alpin, to the song of the aged. 
The deeds of other times are in my soul. My memory 
beams on the days that are past : on the days of mighty 
Toscar, when our path v/as in the deep. Draw near, 
Bon of Alpin, to the last sound of the voice of Cona ! 

The king of Morven commanded. I raised my sails 

* That is, the young virgins who sung the funeral elegy over 
her tomb. 

42 



486 THE POEMS OF OSSI.W, 

to the wind. Toscar, chief of Lutha, slood at my side : 
I rose on the dark-blue wave. Our course was to sea- 
surrounded Berrathon, the isle of many storms. There 
dwelt, with his locks of age, the stately strength of 
Larthmor. Larthmor, who spread tlio feast of shelh 
to Fingal, when he went to Starno's halis, in the days 
of Agandecca. But when the chief was old, the pride 
of his son arose ; the pride of fair-haired Uthal, the 
love of a thousand maids. He bound the aged Larth- 
mor, and dwelt in his sounding halls ! 

Long pined the king in his cave, beside his rolling 
sea. Day did not come to his dwelling : nor the burn- 
ing oak by night. But the wind of ocean was there, 
and the parting beam of the moon. The red star look- 
ed on the king, when it trembled on the western wave. 
Snitho came to Selma's hall ; Snitho, the friend of 
Larthmor's youth. He told of the king of Berrathon : 
the wrath of Fingal arose. Thrice he assumed the 
spear, resolved to stretch his hand to Uthal. But the 
memory of his deeds rose before the king. He sent 
his son and Toscar. Our joy was great on the rolling 
sea. We often half unsheathed our swords. F'or 
never before had we fought alone, in battles of the 
spear. 

Night came down on the ocean. The winds de- 
parted on their wings. Cold and pale is the moon. 
The red stars lift their heads on high. Our course 
is slow along the coast of Berrathon. The white 
waves tumble on the rocks. " What voice is that," 
said Toscar, " which comes between the sounds of the 
waves ? It is soft but mournful, like the voice of de- 
parted bards. But I behold a maid. She sits on the 
rock alone. Her head bends on her arms of snow. 
Her dark hair is in the wind. Hear, son of Fingal, 
her song ; it is smooth as the gliding stream." We 
came to the silent bay, and heard the maid of night. 



BERRATHON. 487 

*' How long will ye roll round me, blue-tumbling 
waters of ocean ? My dwelling was not always in 
caves, nor beneath the whistling tree. The feast was 
spread in Tor-thoma's hall. My father delighted in 
my voice. The youths beheld me in the steps of my 
loveliness. They blessed the dark-haired Nina-thoma. 
It was then thou didst come, O Uthal ! like the sun of 
heaven ! The souls of the virgins are thine, son of 
generous Larthmor ! But why dost thou leave me 
alone, in the midst of roaring waters ? Was my soul 
dark with thy death '? Did my white hand lift the 
sword ? Why then hast thou left me alone, king of 
high Fin-thormo V' 

The tear started from my eye, when I heard the 
voice of the maid. I stood before her in my arms. I 
spoke the words of peace ! " Lovely dweller of the 
cave ! what sigh is in thy breast ? Shall Ossian lift 
his sword in thy presence, the destruction of thy foes ? 
Daughter of Tor-thoma, rise ! I have heard the words 
of thy grief. The race of Morven are around thee, 
who never injured the weak. Come to our dark- 
bosomed ship, thou brighter than the setting moon ! 
Our course is to the rocky Berrathon, to the echoing 
walls of Fin-thormo.'' She came in her beauty ; she 
came with all her lovely steps. Silent joy brightened 
in her face ; as when the shadows fly from the field 
of spring ; the blue stream is rolling in brightness, 
and the green bush bends over its course ! 

The morning rose with its beams. We came to 
Rothma's bay. A boar rushed from the wood : my 
spear pierced his side, and he fell. I rejoiced over the 
blood. I foresaw my growing fame. But now the 
sound of Uthal's train came, from the high Fin-thormo. 
They spread over the heath to the chase of the boar. 
Himself comes slowly on, in the pride of his strength. 
He lifts two pointed spccirs. On his side is the hero's 



488 THE POEMS OF oSSIAN. 

sword. Three youths carry his polished hows. The 
bounding of five dogs is be tore him. His heroes move 
on, at a distance, admiring the steps of the king. 
Stately was the son of Larthmor ! but his soul was 
dark ! Dark as the troubled face of the moon, when 
it foretells the storms. 

We rose on the heath before the king. He stopped 
in the midst of his course. His heroes gathered around. 
A gray-haired bard advanced. " Whence are the sons 
of the strangers ?" began the bard of song. " The 
children of the unhappy come to Berrathon : to the 
sword of car-borne Uthal. He spreads no feast in his 
hall. The blood of strangers is on his streams. If 
from Selma's walls ye come, from the mossy walls of 
Fingal, choose three youths to go to your king to tell 
of the fall of his people. Perhaps the hero may come 
and pour his blood on Udial's sv/ord. So shall the 
fame of Fin-thormo arise ; like the growing tree of 
the vale V 

" Never will it rise, O bard !" I said, in the pride 
of my wrath. " He would shrink from the presence 
of Fingal, whose eyes are the flames of death. The 
son of Comhal comes, and kings vanish before him. 
They are rolled together, like mist, by the breath of 
his rage. Shall three tell to Fingal, that his people 
fell ? Yes ! they may tell it, bard ! but his people 
shall fall with fame !" 

I stood in the darkness of my strength. Toscar 
drew his sword at my side. The foe came on like a 
stream. The mingled sound of death arose. Man 
took man ; shield met shield ; steel mixed its beams 
with steel. Darts hiss through air. Spears ring on 
mails. Swords on broken bucklers bound. As the 
noise of an aged grove beneath the roaring wind, when 
a thousand ghosts break the trees by night, such was 
\he din of anns ! But Uthal fell beneath my sword. 



PEHT^ATIION. 489 

The sons of Barrathon fled. It was then T saw him in 
his beauty, and the tear hung in my eye ! " Thou art 
fallen, young tree, I said, with all thy beauty round 
thee. Thou art fallen on thy plains, and the field is 
bare. The winds come from the desert! there is no 
sound in thy leaves ! Lovely art thou in death, son of 
car-borne Larthmor." 

Nina-thoma sat on the shore. She heard the sound 
of battle. She turned her red eyes on Lethmal, the 
gray-haired bard of Sclma. He alone had remained 
on the coast with the daughter of Tor-thoma. " Son 
of the times of old !" she said, " I hear the noise of 
death. Thy friends have met with Uthal, and the chief 
is low ! O that I had remained on the rock, enclosed 
with the tumbling waves ? Then would my soul be sad, 
but his death would not reach my ear. Art thou fallen 
on the heath, O son of high Fin-thormo ? Thou didst 
leave me on a rock, but my soul was full of thee. Son 
of high Fin-thormo ! art thou fallen on thy heath V 

She rose pale in her tears. She saw the bloody 
shield of Uthal. She saw it in Ossian's hand. Her 
steps were distracted on the heath. She flew. She 
found him. She fell. Her soul came forth in a sigh. 
Her hair is spread on her face. My bursting tears 
descend. A tomb arose on the unhappy. My song 
of wo was heard. " Rest, hapless children of youth ! 
Rest at the noise of that mossy stream ! The virgins 
wir see your tomb, at the chase, and turn away their 
weeping eyes. Your fame will be in song. The voice 
of the harp will be heard in your praise. The daugh- 
ters of Selma shall hear it : your renown shall be in 
other lands. Rest, children of youth, at the noise of 
the mossy stream !" 

Two days we remained on the coast. The heroes 
of Berrathon convened. We brought Larthmor to his 
halls. The feast of shells is spread. The joy of the 



490 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

aged was great. He looked to the arms of his fathers; 
the arms which he left in his hall, when the pride of 
Uthal rose. We were renowned before Larthmor. 
He blessed the chiefs of Morvcn. He knew not that 
his son was low,. the stately strength of Uthal ! They 
had told, that he had retired to the woods, with the tears 
of grief. Th(iy had told it, but he was silent in the 
tomb of Rothma's heath. 

On the fourth day we raised our sails, to the roai 
of the northern wind. Larthmor came to the coast. 
His bards exalted the song. The joy of the king was 
great ; he looked to Rothma's gloomy heath. He saw 
the tomb of his son. The memory of Uthal rose. 
" Who of my heroes," he said, " lies there ? he seems 
to have been of the kings of men. Was he renowned 
in my halls before the pride of Uthal rose ? Ye are 
silent, sons of Berrathon! is the king of heroes low? 
My heart melts for thee, O Uthal ! though thy hand 
was against thy father. O that I had remained in the 
cave ! that my son had dwelt in Fin-thormo ! I might 
have heard the tread of his feet, when he went to the 
chase of the boar. I might have heard his voice on 
the blast of my cave. Then would my soul be glad; 
but now darkness dwells in my halls." 

Such were my deeds, son of Alpin, when the arm 
of my youth was strong. Such the actions of Toscar, 
the car-borne son of Conloch. But Toscar is on his 
flying cloud. I am alone at Lutha. My voice is like 
the last sound of the wind, v.'hcn it forsakes the woods. 
But Ossian shall not be long alone. He sees the mist 
that shall receive his ghost. He beholds the mist that 
shall form his robe, when he appears on his hills. The 
sons of feeble men shall behold me, and admire the stat- 
ure of the chiefs of old. They shall creep to their caves. 
They shall look to the sky with fear : for my steps 
shall be in the clouds, Daikness shall roll on my side 



BERRATHON. 491 

Lead, son of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. 
The winds begin to rise. The dark wave of the lalve 
resounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with its 
branches bare ? It bends, son of Alpin, in the rustling 
blast. My harp hangs on a blasted branch. The 
sound of its strings is mournful. Does the wind touch 
thee, O harp, or is it some passing ghost ? It is the 
hand of Malvina ! Bring me the harp, son of Alpin. An- 
other song shall rise. My soul shall depart in the sound. 
My fathers shall hear it in their airy hall. Their dim 
faces shall hang, with joy, from their clouds ; and their 
hands receive their son. The aged oak bends over the 
stream. It sighs with all its moss. The withered fern 
whistles near, and mixes, as it waves, with Ossian's hair. 

" Strike the harp, and raise the song : be near, with 
all your wings, ye winds. Bear the mournful sound 
away to Fingal's airy hall. Bear it to Fingal's hall, 
that he may hear the voice of his son : the voice of 
him that praised the mighty ! 

" The blast of north opens thy gates, O king ! I be- 
hold thee sitting on mist dimly gleaming in all thine 
arms. Thy form now is not the terror of the valiant. 
It is like a watery cloud, when we see the stars behind 
it with their weeping eyes. Thy shield is the aged 
moon: thy sword a vapor half kindled with fire. Dim 
and feeble is the chief who travelled in brightness be- 
fore ! But thy steps are on the winds of the desert, 
The storms are darkening in thy hand. Thou takest 
the sun in thy wrath, and hidest him in thy clouds. 
The sons of little men are afraid. A thousand showers 
descend. But when thou comest forth in thy mildness, 
the gale of the morning is near thy course. The sun 
laughs in his blue fields. The gray stream winds in 
its vale. The bushes shake their green heads in the 
wind. The roes bound towards the desert. 

" There is a murmur in the heath ! the stormy winds 



492 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 

abate ! I hear the voice of Fingal. Long has it been 
absent from nmine ear ! ' Come, Ossian, come away,* 
he says. Fingal has received his fame. We passed 
away, like flames that have shone for a season. Our 
departure was in renown. Though the plains of our 
battles are dark and silent ; our fame is in the four 
gray stones. The voice of Ossian has been heard. 
The harp has been strung in Selma. ' Come. Ossian, 
come away,' he says ; ' come, fly with thy fathers on 
clouds.' I come, I come, thou king of men ! The life 
of Ossian fails. I begin to vanish on Cona. My steps 
are not seen in Selma. Beside the stone of Mora I 
shall fall asleep. The winds whistling in my gray 
hair, shall not awaken me. Depart on thy wings, O 
wind, thou canst not disturb the rest of the bard. The 
night is long, but his eyes are heavy. Depart, thou 
rustling blast. 

" But why art thou sad, son of Fingal ? Why grows 
the cloud of thy soul ? The chiefs of other times are 
departed. They have gone without their fame. The 
sons of future years shall pass away. Another race 
shall arise. The people are like the waves of ocean ; 
like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass away in the 
rustling blast, and other leaves lift their green heads 
on high. 

" Did thy beauty last, O Ryno ? Stood the strength 
of car-borne Oscar ! Fingal himself departed ! The 
halls of his fathers forgot his steps. Shalt thou then 
remain, thou aged bard ? when the mighty have failed? 
But my fame shall remain, and grow like the oak of 
Morven ; which lifts its broad head to the storm, and 
rejoices in the course of the wind ?" 



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